Moments of Grace - Season Four, Act Six: The Song of the Sharks
by Parlanchina
Summary: Everyone goes through life thinking that the worst will never happen to them, but the agents of the BAU know that when it comes to murder, no one is truly safe all of the time. There are sharks everywhere, some of them hidden in plain sight. The question is, can SSA Grace Pearce keep swimming? This time she and her colleagues really have their work cut out for them. AU. Complete!
1. A Shade of Grey

**Essential listening: frgt/10, by Linkin Park**

The SUV sped along the main road through Cherry Hill, New Jersey.

SSA Derek Morgan eyed the enormous Amber Alert sign as they passed it, travelling bang on the speed limit. They didn't want to alarm the family any more than was necessary, and slamming on the lights and sirens – or 'blues and twos' as his British colleague insisted on calling them, despite the fact they had more than two audible tones and also flashed red – would do just that.

This kind of case was every agent's nightmare: a child abduction. Not just that – the third in a series. They knew from the bodies of the first two victims what this kid was in for if they didn't find him in time. And they didn't have a whole lot of that.

Chafing at the traffic laws, he turned to SSA David Rossi, who was looking grim and focussed in the passenger seat. "What time was he taken?"

It was SSA Emily Prentiss – rereading the files in the backseat – who answered. "Between midnight and 6 a.m."

"Same M.O. as the other two?" Derek asked.

"All abducted from their beds in the middle of the night," Rossi told him, with the ghost of a sigh.

Although they had all been with the BAU long enough to know the odds for this kid were slim, as senior agent Rossi had been working these kinds of cases for decades (the break he had taken to build up his rock star, true crime writing career notwithstanding).

"First two were found strangled, with blunt force head trauma," he read aloud, and then closed the file, resigned. "Dumped them in Wharton State Forest."

"He kept them for forty-eight hours," mused the aforementioned British agent, SSA Grace Pearce, from beside Prentiss. "We treat this as if Kyle's alive until we know otherwise."

All four agents turned their attention to the radio, which Derek had stuck on a news station, in case there was a traffic alert en route:

"_The Amber Alert for the Tri-State Area has been issued. The Cherry Hill Police Department is about to hold a press conference."_

They were still ten minutes away.

0o0

By the time they pulled up, there were people everywhere: news crews, members of the public, the family themselves, all milling around.

"Glad they took our advice and started the press conference," Prentiss remarked.

Rossi raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, but it would be nice if there weren't so many people walking all over the crime scene."

"And they complain about coppers and their size nines," Pearce grumbled.

Derek nodded. Forensically speaking, this was a horror show.

On the lawn in front of what had been a quiet family home, Detective Bill Lancaster (who had identified himself during the press conference they had listened to in the car and had taken over when Kyle's mother, Sarah, had broken down) was reading the statement JJ had helped the department and the family prepare from the jet. The Murphys were openly weeping, Dan Murphy cradling his inconsolable wife in his arms. Their oldest son, Danny, stood beside them, looking uncomfortable and uncertain.

"Whatever happened last night, whoever took Kyle, the Murphys want you to know it's okay," Lancaster read aloud to the clustered journalists. "Thank you for finding their little boy. They know it was a mistake. They just want their son back. They just want Kyle back, safe and sound."

"What's the theory on what happened to Kyle Murphy?" one of the journalists asked, with no concern about what that question might do to the family.

"We're just hoping that he's lost," said Lancaster firmly. "And whoever finds him will bring him back home, soon."

Another young woman spoke up. "Uh, this case is similar to two other cases in Camden County. Those boys were abducted and found in the woods."

Lancaster glanced behind him at the Murphys, who looked wretched.

The journalist failed to take the hint. "You really don't think there's a connection?"

"Bloody vultures," Pearce muttered under her breath. She rolled her eyes.

Derek crossed his arms, aware he was in her eyeline and would take the movement as a mild check on her behaviour.

She had been a little more snarky of late, quicker to grumble. It wasn't surprising, really, given what she had been through*. The cast on her wrist wasn't the only thing she still carried from her time in Peachtree City.

Pearce glanced in his direction and he caught enough of her expression to know she knew what he was trying to tell her and that she thought he was being an idiot. When she wanted to be, she could be the very picture of professionalism. She wouldn't cause trouble here. There was a seven year old out there somewhere who needed her not to.

"We're not ruling that out," Lancaster assured the press. "We'll keep the public informed of any leads. If you have any further questions you can contact me at the station. Thank you for coming."

The four agents waited patiently for Lancaster to shepherd the distressed Murphys back inside before navigating through the dispersing press line towards them.

"That was fast," he remarked, when he reached them.

"We don't have a lot of time," said Derek. "Can you show us around?"

Lancaster nodded, and the two women peeled off to interview the family while he and Rossi checked out the crime scene.

"You should've taken this off-property," Rossi commented mildly.

"Yeah, well the truth is, I wanted to do this down at the station, but Danny and Sarah didn't wanna leave the house in case Kyle comes back," he said, leading them up the garden path to the front door. He pulled a photograph out of his inside jacket pocket. "That's Kyle."

Derek took it and immediately turned it over, spotting some writing on the back.

'_To Uncle Bill, Love Kyle'_ was scrawled on the back in blue biro.

"Uncle Bill?" he queried.

"We're friends," he admitted. "And neighbours. Dan and I grew up around here."

"You know, your involvement in this case could be a conflict of interest," Derek told him, though he knew from experience that no one in his team would be able to drop something like this, if they were this close to it.

He glanced at Pearce's back as she and Emily headed towards the front door.

_We never do._

"I appreciate your concern," said Lancaster, coming to a halt. "But I'm – uh – not going to stand around while Kyle's still out there. I know the other two cases. I didn't wanna admit this to the press, but um… there's no doubt in my mind that Kyle's the third victim."

Rossi gave him a hard look. "You know what we're looking at. Ninety-nine percent of abducted children are killed in the first twenty-four hours."

Lancaster nodded, looking like he understood this sad fact all too well.

"I know," he said. "I'm gonna check on them," he added, pointing in the general direction of the family, who were staring out of the window at the crowds of people in their front yard, looking harrowed.

"We saw the pictures," Rossi reminded Derek quietly. "We know what this guy does to little boys."

Derek looked at the ground for the moment. They couldn't give up on this kid. "Rossi, Kyle Murphy might be the one percent that makes it."

"Could take a miracle."

"For his sake, let's hope we get one."

The other man nodded and together they walked around the back of the property.

0o0

_To lose a child is to lose a piece of yourself._

_Dr Burton Grevin_

0o0

When Emily and Pearce got inside, the family were being comforted by neighbours or relatives. It was hard to tell which, but there was hugging and everyone was tearful and distressed, so they hung back for a minute or two until, mindful of the rapidly diminishing forty-eight hour clock they were working within, Emily caught Dan Murphy's eye and he managed to persuade people to leave as he piloted Sarah and his older son towards the couch.

"Dan Murphy," he said, shaking their hands.

Behind him, young Danny sat stiffly on the three-seater while Sarah Murphy took a handful of something – possibly aspirin, possibly a sedative – from a bottle on the coffee table. Emily didn't blame her. This kind of horror did things to people.

"Agent Emily Prentiss," she said.

Pearce shook hands, too. "Agent Grace Pearce."

"May we ask you some questions?" Emily asked.

Dan gave his wife a look of assessment before agreeing. He looked helpless and exhausted. They all did.

"I think so," he said. "Come in."

They took seats across from the battered family.

"Thank you all for speaking with us," said Grace. "We understand that this is awful, but we need to ask you a few things."

"We cannot stress enough how much time is of the essence, here," Emily added, taking out her notebook.

Grace was neglecting hers, focussing on their body language instead of their words.

"Abductions from the home are rare," Emily continued. "And that allows us to narrow down the suspect pool."

"What makes them unusual?" Dan asked.

"Abductions are typically about timing and opportunity," Emily told them, skirting the line between being honest with these people and adding to their already not inconsiderable distress. "A child walks home alone, or gets separated at a shopping centre."

"Home abductions take planning and dedication," Grace added. "This is a sophisticated, high-risk crime, which points to a more mature, patient individual."

"Whoever did this has good social skills," said Emily. "They're highly functioning and they have a steady job. He wouldn't look out of place to you, and you wouldn't be alarmed if your children were talking to him. So, he may be wearing a uniform, like a delivery man or a mail carrier. Have you noticed anyone hanging around the neighbourhood, talking with children?"

"Nothing comes to mind," said Dan, apologetically.

Sarah was simply staring off into space, trying to escape the nightmare they had found themselves in, but she managed to speak. "No. No, I don't know."

"Mrs Murphy?" Grace asked, as the woman clutched her head as if her pain had turned physical as well as emotional.

"Do you wanna take a break?" Emily asked.

She opened her eyes, looking very ill indeed, and said, "I think I need – need to lie down."

"Yeah," said her husband, giving her hand a squeeze.

"Sorry," said Mrs Murphy.

"Oh, no," said Emily hurriedly. "It's okay."

She couldn't begin to imagine what this poor woman was going through right now.

"Can you manage, or –" Grace offered, half rising from her chair, but sank back into it as the stricken woman managed to convey, through a stuttering wave of her hand, that she would prefer to tackle this alone.

"Are you able to continue?" Emily asked Dan, as Grace watched Sarah walk unsteadily away, ready to go after her if it looked like she might fall.

Dan nodded unhappily, looking wretched. "Sure."

"Danny, you and Kyle – you always walk to and from the bus stop together, right?" Emily asked.

Dan put his hand on his son's knee, comforting him.

"Uh-huh." He made himself meet their gaze. "Yeah."

"Have any strangers talked to you or your brother recently?"

Danny looked at his knees, shaking his head. "Bus driver asks us questions, sometimes," he said. "I don't know."

Emily dutifully noted this down.

"You're doing great," said Grace, since the boy looked increasingly visibly upset.

"What time of day do the boys usually play outside?" Emily asked.

"Uh, well they both have practice – after school," said Dan, brokenly. "But lately Kyle's been – into video games, and Danny loves building model airplanes."

"That actually tells us a lot," said Emily, though he hadn't actually answered the question. She pulled out a second pad of paper and pen and passed them to Dan. "Uh, we are going to need you to make a list of anyone who's been in or around your home in the past six months. Whoever took Kyle has probably been in this house before. He watched the family routine. He knew exactly where everyone slept, and he got Kyle out without anyone seeing or hearing anything."

Both father and son looked distraught at this, and Danny gave a big sniff, trying not to cry.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I go play now?"

"Yeah, go to the family room."

"I'll go with you," Grace suggested. "You can show me those models."

"Uh, sure," said Danny, trying surreptitiously to rub tears from his eyes.

They were most of the way across the room when he asked, "How'd you hurt your arm?"

"I got kidnapped by a bad guy," said Grace, without hesitation or the slightest tremor in her voice, though Emily knew it must have cost her.

"And you escaped?" Danny sounded impressed, despite how distressed he was.

"I got rescued. Same as we're going to try to do for your brother."

The door closed behind them.

"He… doesn't really understand what's going on," Dan said, rubbing a hand over his face.

"That is probably for the best," said Emily gently. "Mr Murphy, we are going to do everything we can to find Kyle."

He nodded, his hand pressed to his mouth and still weeping. "Thank you."

0o0

In the heart of Cherry Hill Police Department, Doctor Spencer Reid taped the smiling school picture of seven-year old Kyle Murphy to the one of the boards they had been allocated and then re-taped it because it wasn't entirely straight.

Their Unit Chief, SSA Aaron Hotchner had spread his files out over the desk behind Spencer and pulled out his laptop. SSA Jennifer Jareau had been liaising with the local officers who had worked the original case. She hurried over, clutching a large volume of paper.

"After the first two abductions, Cherry Hill Police compiled a list of all known sex offenders in Camden County," she said, dropping the two reams of print-outs. "There are over four hundred. Thirty-nine within a thirty mile radius of where the boys were taken."

Both Hotch and Spencer reached for a stack, which had each offender listed by name, address, offence and previous penitentiary.

"They have been knocking on doors," JJ continued. "They have been conducting interviews and they haven't been able to come up with anything."

"They should have called us earlier," said Hotch, without a trace of recrimination. It was simple pragmatism. "There are a lot of these men we can eliminate right away."

"Right," said Spencer, grabbing a white board marker from the box they had brought with them.

"No one new to the area," said Hotch, behind him. "This unsub knows this area, that takes time. Victims are three males, so cross off anyone who targets females."

Spencer nodded, writing the elimination criteria on the board and privately wondering why anyone would approach information like this and not do that first.

"We can eliminate anyone whose preferential age is under seven or over eleven," he said aloud, briefly using the end of the marker to scratch his nose.

"These boys look nothing alike," Hotch observed, reviewing their photographs. "So, discount anyone who has a very specific type. If their victims have only brown or blond hair, they're off the list. Our unsub's taste is more broad."

"It looks like his preference is based more on age than physical characteristics," Spencer commented.

Hotch nodded. "Let's make a discussion pile of more organised offenders, anyone who's been arrested for stalking, breaking and entering, burglary."

Spencer turned back and looked at JJ. "How are we doing so far?"

"Uh, with these parameters we can probably cross off half the names," she said, skimming through the list.

"Good," said Hotch, as Spencer reapplied himself to his task. "Let's keep going."

_And then maybe Kyle Murphy has a chance._

0o0

"I cleared our techs out of here," said Lancaster, leading Dave into Kyle's bedroom. "What is it you're lookin' for?"

Dave surveyed the scattered, broken toys before glancing up at the detective.

_Might as well teach him, if he won't take himself off the case, I guess._

"Certain behaviour. What happened here will give us a clue about the unsub." He crouched down to examine the disarrayed bedclothes. "Kyle's sheet and blanket were pulled apart and off the bed." He moved further in, his eyes on the mess on the ground. "Toys, stepped on and broken. Kicked out of the way. There was a struggle."

Dave frowned and opened the file he had carried with him from the car.

"That's consistent with the first two abductions," he observed. "The boys woke up and fought, but…" He closed the file, perturbed. "This looks a bit more chaotic than the others. When we're finished, have the techs come in again and look for any trace of blood or fibres. He may have gagged Kyle."

"In the other two cases, the boys were struck in the head," Detective Lancaster reminded him. "What if he used the weapon to scare him?"

"He could have," Dave acknowledged. "He would have had to act quickly in order to keep Kyle quiet."

0o0

JJ stirred the UHT milk into her crappy PD coffee, waiting for her friend to pick up.

"_Tell me things, sunshine," _Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia said, as soon as she answered.

"I need your brain and your computer," JJ told her.

"_They are one and the same!"_

Even though she was thousands of miles away in Quantico, JJ could tell her friend was smiling. It was a comforting thing to know that, no matter how dark things got, somewhere in the world, Garcia was making things a little bit brighter.

"_Gimme your question!"_

"I emailed you ten names."

"_Yes, you did,"_ said Garcia, who had just discovered this.

"Uh, track their movements and spending habits," JJ asked. "Start with their phone records and then go to their bank accounts. We're interested in the days the boys went missing. Uh… did they talk more or less those days, did they spend any money?"

"_Okay, dregs of societal dirt, show yourselves..."_ There was a pause as Garcia worked her magic. _"That's interesting."_

"What is?"

"_Well, one of dregs has not a lick of cell phone activity, credit card purchases or cash withdrawals for two consecutive days in both November and February."_

Feeling her heart rate pick up, JJ put her coffee down and pulled the list towards her. "The fifteenth and sixteenth of November and the twenty-first and twenty-second of February?"

"_Yeah, those are the days,"_ said Garcia, sounding spooked. _"What does that mean?"_

"They coincide with the days the first two boys were abducted," JJ told her grimly. "He was too busy with them to make any calls or spend any money."

Ignoring the horrified silence, JJ went to find Hotch and Reid.

0o0

"Our tech guys found this dishrag and a glass of water," said Lancaster, as Dave followed him into the kitchen. "Kyle's fingerprints were all over it."

"So, he wakes up thirsty, comes to the kitchen and gets some water," Dave reasoned.

"When we got here, the deadbolt on the French doors was unlocked," said the detective, pointing it out.

It was in the family room, a section of the kitchen that had been made more comfortable. Dave could imagine them all relaxing there.

"That must have been his exit," said Dave.

"Rossi!" Morgan called, from the basement. "I got somethin'."

Dave trotted down the steps and around the shelving unit to find Morgan picking through broken glass from the small window at the back.

"This window was definitely broken from the outside," the younger agent observed. "Given the size of it, the unsub would have to be real slight to get through." He turned to them. "What did you find upstairs?"

"Signs of a struggle. Looks like Kyle was abducted from his room," said Dave. "The unsub went out through the family room door."

"So, he finds a safe, quiet place to break in," Lancaster said sadly.

"Everything about how Kyle Murphy was taken is consistent with the previous abductions," Dave remarked heavily.

_Which means, if he's still alive, the poor kid is going through hell right now._

Morgan's cell phone rang and he answered it. "Yeah, Hotch?" Dave watched as his eyebrows shot skywards. "Okay, we're on our way. They got a shortlist."

0o0

*See Moments of Grace – Season Four, Act Five: Secrets and Lies.


	2. Dark Roads

**Essential Listening: Sunday Morning, by Arstiðir**

The whole team reassembled at the Cherry Hill Police Department. They had given Detective Lancaster a ride in with them, which had made the journey a little awkward because of his obvious connection to the case, and Grace was quite pleased to be out of the car, even if one of the other Cherry Hill officers had accidentally jarred her wrist cast with a door on the way in.

The urgency of the situation was not lost on any of them, so she had brushed off his apology with an audible wince and nothing more.

She followed Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi and Detective Lancaster through the main reception and up the stairs to the homicide department, where the rest of the team had set up shop, so to speak.

Hotch and JJ were sitting at a couple of desks, surrounded by a mercifully limited number of files; further in, Reid was laying out stacks of information on each suspect for easier perusal.

"We've narrowed the list to five men," said Hotch, not even looking up as they trailed around the desk.

"Already?" asked Lancaster, surprised.

"The most likely suspect is registered sex offender, Hugh Rollins," said Reid, taping the man's custody picture to a board adjoining that of the victims. "Forty-three, lived in Camden County his whole life. In and out of foster care since he was a toddler and acquired quite the nice rap-sheet."

"What's his connection to the victims?" Morgan asked, as Grace eyed the other four, apparently less favourable candidates on the table.

"Two years ago, he got a city job installing TVs," said JJ.

"Have any of the families purchased a new TV?" Prentiss asked.

"Uh, the first two did," said JJ and grimaced. "Garcia found something else. Rollins had no cell or bank activity on the days the boys were abducted."

Grace's eyebrow involuntarily raised. "That's telling."

Hotch got to his feet, carried by the momentum of the new arrivals. "We haven't been able to confirm Rollins took Kyle yet."

"So, what?" Morgan asked. "Are we gonna wait for more evidence?"

"There's no time. He could be holding Kyle at the house," said Grace, feeling the familiar thrum of needing to be out there doing something, and knowing that her injured wrist would still keep her at command. "And the less time he gets to spend with this kid, the better. Our presence might be accelerating his timeline."

"We have sufficient probable cause," Hotch agreed.

"Alright," said Dave. "Let's go pick him up."

Grace tried not to grimace as they headed out without her. She rummaged in her bag for her painkillers.

"Wrist hurting?" Reid asked, as she wandered up to the board with a bottle of water to wash them down.

"Caught it against a door," she explained and he made an appropriately sympathetic noise. "What do you need me to do?"

0o0

The house was cleared quickly and efficiently after Morgan kicked the door off its frame, and it seemed there was no one at home – which was not good news for Kyle Murphy.

Emily notified Rossi, who notified her back that the truck was clean, then she pulled on her gloves. They would have to work quickly; Kyle obviously wasn't there. She turned on the computer and her eyes were instantly assaulted by a large quantity of child pornography.

"Urgh," she said aloud and announced this fact.

"Probably helps him sleep better at night," came Morgan's dark reply from the bedroom. "Anything that connects him to the three boys?"

"Nothing yet," she said, flicking through the images.

There was comparative peace for a moment, then, "Wait a minute," said Morgan. Emily went to the doorway to Rollins' bedroom to find her friend pulling a black bin liner out of the wardrobe.

"Prentiss," he said, joining her.

"What is it?"

He responded by reaching into the bag and pulling out a brightly coloured stuffed animal, which he dropped unceremoniously onto the computer table.

"Souvenirs."

Both agents grimace as he began unpacking the bag. There were a lot of them; and if each one represented a child, they had a lot more victims to account for.

"I'll check out back," said Lancaster.

Almost as soon as he had opened the door, he yelled _"Stop!"_ Immediately, a shot rang out and they both abandoned the toys, sprinting outside.

"I said stop!"

_Did Rollins have a weapon?_ Emily thought hastily. _We didn't profile that!_

But the scene she had been expecting: a shoot-out between two armed men, didn't materialise. Instead, she saw an overweight, middle-aged man staggering towards the back fence, while Detective Lancaster lined up his gun sight for another shot – at the man's retreating back.

There was a metallic crash from the side of the house, which suggested Rossi and the other officers had managed to cut through the chain holding the gates together.

Morgan took one look at the situation and forced Lancaster to lower the gun.

"What are you doing?" the agent yelled.

"He's getting away!"

"He knows where the kid is! Stand down!"

Emily held Lancaster in place while Morgan ran to the back fence where Rollins, clearly unaccustomed to feats of athleticism, was trying unsuccessfully to haul himself up the high fence.

"Son of a bitch!" Lancaster shouted.

Morgan was on him in an instant.

"Ahh! No! No!" the man cried, as the agent prised him off the wire fence. "No! Please! Don't hurt me!"

Morgan slammed him to the ground and turned him over, yelling into his face, "I'm FBI! Now, stop resisting!"

"Okay!" Rollins wailed. "Don't hurt me! Please!"

0o0

Derek exchanged a dark look with Prentiss as the two uniformed officers led Hugh Rollins, registered sex offender and definite serial killer, to their squad car. It had taken some time to get him to calm down and he was still whimpering.

So far, he hadn't offered up anything about Kyle's whereabouts, which wasn't a huge surprise.

_Still,_ Derek thought, _it might have gone a whole lot smoother if Lancaster hadn't tried his damnedest to shoot the bastard._

With this in mind, he strode over to the detective.

"What the hell was that about?" he demanded.

"I thought he might get away," Lancaster explained, quietly. Some of the adrenaline seemed to have left him and he looked faintly apologetic. "I wasn't thinking."

"You're damn right you weren't!" Derek snapped.

The manufactured calm Detective Lancaster had been manifesting fell away in an instant. Again, he was every inch the aggrieved man, dealing with a close, personal trauma. "Alright, I know! It was stupid."

"What if you'd killed him?" Derek asked. He wasn't entirely sure he'd drummed the point home, and he'd have to be. "He's the only one who knows where Kyle is."

Lancaster glared at him, anger barely contained. "I said, I know," he growled.

"Look, Lancaster," said Derek, more quietly, deciding he needed to take it down a notch. "I've been where you are. I was a cop, too. That's why I knew this wasn't a good idea. You are way too close."

"I'm not gonna sit still, and I'm not gonna stop until we find Kyle," the other man retorted, stamping away.

Rossi and Prentiss, who Derek had spotted coming out of the house a few minutes earlier, but who had been giving both men a little space, joined him.

"Kyle's not in the house," said Rossi, pulling off his gloves.

"No," said Prentiss, following suit. "And if he isn't on this property –"

"He's already in the woods," Rossi finished heavily.

The three agents shared a grim expression.

"So, Rollins goes to the trouble of breaking into the Murphy's house," Prentiss began, breaking the silence.

"It's a big risk to take Kyle," Rossi added.

"Then he only keeps him for a few hours?" She shook her head. "This doesn't make."

Rossi grimaced. "Maybe he saw the news, panicked. We need to search the woods."

0o0

The knock on the window was all Dave needed to hear.

He prowled around the table in the interview room, looming purposefully over Rollins. If they could make him sweat, maybe he'd tell them where he'd hidden Kyle. It was the kid's last hope.

"That means that the parents have identified the toys that we found in your closet," he told the man, who had gone pale with fear. "They belong to their boys. It's over for you."

Rollins nodded slightly, mostly to himself, and Dave took this as a positive sign. Carefully, he took the photograph of Kyle out of the file and placed it on the table in front of Rollins' cuffed hands.

"Where's Kyle Murphy?"

Rollins shook his head. "I don't know."

"That's not going to help you," Dave told him sternly. He pulled out the other two pictures and laid them either side of Kyle's. "Andy Losier, he was eleven. Jimmy Seeger, he was nine."

He watched as Rollins' face gained some of the colour, pleased to see the faces of the boys he had murdered once more.

"But Kyle," Dave continued, keeping the man's attention. "He's only seven. You keep going younger."

Dave took a seat across from Rollins, who was looking at Kyle's picture. He swallowed hard.

"Guys like you don't last very long in Trenton State," Dave told him, feeling his way towards the edges of Rollins' fears, working out just where to push. "Did you know that the inmates there watch the news every night? I bet they're looking forward to getting you all alone. Life in Trenton might as well be a death sentence." He waited until the other man was visibly trembling before asking, "Are you sure you don't wanna tell me where Kyle is?"

Rollins' eyes slid up to meet his own. "If I tell you about this kid, I'm not going to Trenton?"

Dave didn't agree – but he didn't say 'no' either. He just let the possibility hang in the air and Rollins' fear do all the work.

Rollins shook his head again – a nervous tic, Dave suspected. "I want that written down."

0o0

"He's gonna confess to killing Kyle?" Lancaster asked, as Aaron and Dave followed him into his office.

"He's desperate," Dave told him. "Knows he won't survive state prison."

"The DA's not going to offer a deal until he has more evidence linking Rollins to Kyle," Aaron explained, watching the detective with a certain amount of caution.

Although Detective Lancaster had been accommodating and helpful, he was also a bit of a loose cannon, if what Morgan had told him about his performance at Rollins' house was anything to go by. Aaron knew from bitter personal and professional experience how difficult it could be keeping a thing at arm's-length if you were emotionally compromised – particularly if the victim you knew was a child. He also knew that neither he nor any of his team would be able to step back, so he was allowing the detective a certain amount of leeway in that respect.

It meant monitoring the man's behaviour pretty closely, which was difficult on top of managing every other aspect of the case. He just hoped it didn't come back and bite them all in the ass later on.

"What about the toys?" Lancaster asked.

"The Seegers IDed one, but Dan couldn't," Rossi explained, to Lancaster's obvious frustration.

"He never delivered a television to the Murphy's house," said Aaron.

"So, he saw him some other way," he retorted. "Look, we have this guy. He's about to confess. He's done everything the same, let's nail 'im."

Dave shook his head. "He won't confess without the deal."

"We need more evidence," Hotch insisted.

"Well, what if we find Kyle?" Lancaster asked. "That'll prove it, won't it? What about the woods?"

_And what if he isn't dead?_ Aaron thought. _This guy has made up his mind that all hope for his friend's boy is lost. Well, sometimes it takes people that way…_

"We have over a hundred thousand acres to cover," he pointed out.

It wasn't like they could just snap their fingers and magic the child's body into the open.

Fleetingly, his thoughts turned to Pearce, but then, if that was something she could do he suspected she already would have done it. And only admitted it to him if she thought she might get caught.

"He's out there, somewhere!" Lancaster declared hotly and strode out, presumably to round people up for another search. "I'm not sticking around here."

_No, and you think that what we're doing now is a waste of time,_ thought Aaron, but forbore from saying it aloud.

He shared a speaking look with Dave.

"He's too close to this," he said, by which both men understood that he meant 'he's bordering on irrational, we need to keep an eye on that'.

Dave sighed. "We've warned him."

Not much else they could do than that.

"Actually, I would like some physical evidence that Rollins was in that house," he mused. "Take Reid over there, he's got fresh eyes. And have Pearce talk to the brother. He might recognise Rollins' picture."

Dave nodded. "Rollins is scared. He's ready to talk."

"I'll see what I can do," said Aaron, who didn't relish another argument with the DA's office, but sometimes, that was the job.

0o0

Dan Murphy let them into the house, which was more of a centre of forensic operations at this point than a home, and agreed to let her speak to his oldest son while Reid and Rossi went over the scene again.

His eyes followed them up the stairs, so Grace asked after Sarah, who had apparently taken refuge upstairs and hadn't come down for an hour or two. Dan looked particularly apologetic about this.

"Sometimes people just need to take a little time to regroup, particularly in cases like this," grace told him gently. "It's a lot – as you are discovering."

He nodded. "I just wish there was something either of us could do to bring Kyle back," he said miserably.

"All you can do right now – aside from helping us with our inquiries, as you have been – is look after yourselves and one another, so he has a strong foundation to come home to," she told him.

Dan swallowed. "Do you think – would you mind if I checked on my wife?"

"Not at all," she replied, thinking it might actually be easier to talk to Danny without the turmoil and fear each of his parents was presently feeling being in the room and directing his answers or impacting his emotions. "Maybe you'd both feel a little stronger after a cup of tea?"

"That's – yes," said the man, his voice cracking. "I'll just –"

He hurried out of the room in the general direction of the kitchen. Grace's heart went out to the man. The more time passed, the less likely it was that Kyle would be coming home, and it looked like the Murphys were beginning to realise this. Still, the team had been surprised by the return of victims for whom all hope had dissipated before. If she had been a religious person, Grace would have prayed that Kyle would be among those happy few.

Instead, she counted to one hundred under her breath and headed for the family room, which was on the far side of the open-pan kitchen.

Dan Murphy was in one half, by the kettle, trying to disguise the fact he had been overcome with emotion. Grace politely pretended that she hadn't seen and went to see Kyle's brother, who was quietly piecing parts of a model fighter jet together and entirely ignoring Cartoon Network.

"Hi," she said, and he looked up.

"Hello."

_It hasn't hit him properly yet_, she thought.

"That's coming on," she remarked, nodding towards the model, which had been much less assembled when she had seen it that morning.

"I might get to finish it today," he said, holding it up for inspection. "Can't play outside, or in my room."

Grace nodded. "I imagine it's a bit of a strange day all round," she said, and he nodded too.

"Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

He looked down at his knees for a moment. "Is it about Kyle?"

"Yes."

He hesitated, pulling a face, then looked over his shoulder to see where his father was, but Dan had just left the room carrying a tray of tea for Sarah.

"Okay," he said, at last.

He put the model down and picked up the next piece of wing, turning it over and over in his hands.

"Thank you," said Grace, sitting cross legged on the floor beside him, which was a little awkward because of her wrist. She took out the mugshot they had taken of Rollins. "Danny, could you look at this picture for me?"

Without meeting her gaze, he took the photograph and dutifully stared at it. There was no flicker of recognition there, but she asked anyway. "Have you seen this man around?"

"No," he said, shaking his head.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He looked up at her, frowning. "Who is he?"

"Just someone we think might have been in the neighbourhood," she replied, in an even tone. She took the picture back and Danny went back to twiddling the plane part around in his hands. "Have any of yours or Kyle's friends had a new TV in the last few months, do you know?"

Danny thought for a moment, obviously confused about this line of questioning. "No," he said at last.

"Sure?"

"Yeah. Cole got a new computer last week," he offered. "His sister, Becki, is going to college so he's got her old one."

Grace made a mental note, but it sounded unlikely to come to anything. Even if Rollins' company had sold Becki and Cole's family the computer, he would have been unlikely to be in their house. Still, they could check. You never knew. Sometimes the weirdest of life's coincidences were the ones that set off awful chains of events like the one this family were presently dealing with.

"Thanks, Danny."

He gave a half shrug, chewing his lip. Grace watched him for a moment, wondering at the private hell he must be going through.

"I bet you miss Kyle, huh?" she said.

He shrugged again. "I don't know. I guess. He's so annoying!"

Grace couldn't help the slight smile that crept onto her face at that.

"Everyone's brothers are annoying," she remarked, thinking of Morgan and of Max, back in London. "You shouldn't feel guilty."

"I don't," Danny said shortly, looking directly at her. "I don't."

0o0

They had pulled up at a popular picnic spot in Wharton State Forest, not far from where Andy and Jimmy had been found. Already, Lancaster was organising the searchers, setting up areas, deploying his officers.

Derek knew the signs. The man couldn't bear to not be doing anything, not with Kyle still unaccounted for.

"I'm gonna take them this way," he was saying, to one of his people. "How about you head out over there?"

Derek reached them just as the officer moved away, already corralling his team and heading West, into the woods.

"We swept the entire area where the first two victims were found," he said, looking at the map Reid had pushed into his hands before everyone but Hotch and JJ had left the Police Department.

Lancaster sighed, looked around, then said, "What if he went further south?"

"Why?" Prentiss asked, following the man's gaze.

"There's a service road down that way," Lancaster told them, pointing.

Derek frowned. "That's not on this map."

"Yeah, it's not marked," said the detective. "But it would have been his fastest way in and out of here."

_And this is why local knowledge is vital_, Derek thought. _If Rollins got spooked, then he might have wanted the most expedient way to dispose of the body._

From the sounds of it, Emily agreed. "Well, we know Rollins didn't spend a lot of time with Kyle."

Derek nodded grimly. He gestured to Detective Lancaster to lead the way. "Let's go."

0o0

"If he came in through the basement, this would have been the second flight of stairs," said Rossi, as he and Spencer walked up them.

They had been poring over the parts of the house Rollins would have gone through in order to commit the crime. First the basement, then the hallway; now the stairs.

"So, Kyle's would have been the first room he comes to," he said aloud, pulling his gloves on.

Following Rossi inside, he raised his eyebrows at the destruction inside. Toys and bedclothes had been strewn everywhere. Kyle must have put up one hell of a fight.

"This wasn't a quiet struggle," he remarked. "He must have knocked Kyle unconscious."

"Then carried him back downstairs," Rossi finished.

Spencer nodded. "What's through here?" he asked, noticing a second door.

"Danny's room."

There was a small, colourful shared bathroom linking the two bedrooms. Nothing appeared out of place, so Spencer walked straight through to Danny's room.

"It's interesting," he mused. "Another few feet and he would have found Danny. Danny's far more age-appropriate for Rollins' preferences. He's closer to the first two victims than Kyle is."

"If he'd been stalking these families, he would have known that."

Rossi frowned as Spencer took in the highly organised, unnaturally tidy bedroom. Apparently Danny was an especially fastidious child. The only things that had apparently been disturbed were the bunk beds, which had both been slept in, the covers kicked off.

"That' weird," he remarked, crossing to the bed.

"What, a neat nine year old?" Rossi queried, also picking up on the strange neatness.

"Well that," said Spencer, aware that nine year olds came in all varieties, including those who clung to order to survive school. "And most kids either pick a top or a bottom bunk. Both beds are slept in."

He squatted down beside the lower bunk and looked up. Someone had stuck glow in the dark stars above the top bunk, but they might as well have not been there.

"The top bunk blocks the view of the stars and there's nothing decorative down here."

"It's Danny's room," Rossi reasoned, joining him beside the bed. "He probably sleeps up top."

Spencer sniffed and lifted the covers on the bottom bunk an inch. "Somebody wet the bed. You know… maybe Danny started in the bottom bunk, wet the bed and then moved up top?"

A nice, neat explanation – except… something about it just didn't feel right. He glanced at Rossi, who had extracted a garish blue rabbit from under a fold of the duvet. Frowning, the senior agent opened his file and hunted through it for a moment, until he found a picture of the family together.

Spencer followed his gaze: it wasn't Danny holding the rabbit in the photograph.

"This is Kyle's," Rossi realised. They shared a look and both started looking around again in earnest.

Under the bed were a crumpled pair of pyjama bottoms. Spencer checked the size on the waistband.

"Size six. Kyle slept in here last night." He frowned. "If he didn't sleep in his room, why was it destroyed?"

Rossi thought for a moment, his expression darkening. Spencer felt his pulse pick up. Was he thinking the same thing? Had they read this whole thing wrong?

"To make it look like the other crime scenes."

0o0

It had taken some persuading, but finally the DA had agreed to offer Rollins a deal in exchange for the location of Kyle Murphy – preferably alive, but either way. Aaron read it through once more, the paper still hot from the printer, then went straight to the interrogation room where Rollins was stewing.

He pushed it across the desk, in no mood to bargain with a man who had sexually assaulted and strangled at least two, possibly three boys.

_Still, needs must when the devil drives – and don't we see too many of them, in this line of work!_

"Here's your deal," he told him. "'Club Fed'."

"Where is that?" the other man asked, glancing at the agreement in front of him.

"Any Federal prison of your choice in New Jersey," said Aaron, watching Rollins take in the DA's signature and those of two local judges. "Where's Kyle Murphy?"

Rollins looked up, took a breath as if to steady himself and said, "I threw him in the river."

Aaron's eyes immediately narrowed.

_Oh_, he thought._ Oh, no._

"You – didn't take him back to the woods?"

Rollins shook his head. "No. I didn't have time."

_I have to be sure_, Aaron thought. "You threw him in the Delaware River?" he asked aloud.

"Yes."

"He could be anywhere," Aaron observed.

"Well, I suppose that's so," said Rollins.

Aaron watched his micro-expressions closely. "We may never find him."

"I guess that's true." Rollins looked at the table, no longer meeting Aaron's eyes.

"You didn't throw him in the river," Aaron told him, and the expression on the other man's face was as close to a deer in headlights as he had seen in a long time. "You need more control than that. You need to know exactly where the body is so you can go back and live it over and over again."

Rollins swallowed as Aaron unzipped his compulsions; it was probably the only time Rollins had heard any of his behaviour described aloud, particularly in such a clinical way. It was one of those things you saved for when you knew someone was on the edge – the mental and emotional impact could be immense. And useful.

"Tell me the truth," he insisted, leaning over the table and getting right in the frightened paedophile's face.

Rollins' mouth worked for a moment, but he seemed to be unable to speak. Aaron read what he needed right off the man's face.

He snatched up the DA's offer and left the room.

Hugh Rollins had not murdered Kyle Murphy; which meant they were chasing the wrong ghosts. And Kyle, wherever he was, didn't have that kind of time.


	3. Where the Wild Things Are

**Essential Listening: Monster, by Imagine Dragons**

Morgan and Prentiss had come in from the search of the woods looking grim and drawn. Even if they hadn't called ahead, Grace would have known Kyle Murphy was dead, just from their expressions.

"Detective Lancaster went to notify the family," Morgan told them and everyone nodded.

That was probably for the best. No way he'd let anyone else do it – and it would allow him to feel like he was still trying to do his best for them.

"Same as the others?" Spencer asked, in the manner of someone who already knew the answer would be in the negative.

He had caught Grace up on the discoveries he and Rossi had made at the house over a hurried lunch taken in shifts. Now they knew there was more going on here than a 'simple' paedophile-stalking-and-murdering-his-victims scenario, they needed to give themselves a little space away from the scene or the department to think. Lunch was a handy excuse.

The discovery of Kyle's body had changed the pace of the investigation. It was no longer a race against time; now the slow, subtle business of trying to identify and bring to book the person who had sought to hide their own crime in the shadow of another's had set in. With Rollins in custody – and with sufficient evidence tying him to the first two murders for him to be formally charged – and the emphasis off finding Kyle, whomever had actually murdered the boy was likely to begin to relax, imagining that they were safe from prosecution.

This, they were soon to learn, if the BAU had anything to say about it, was not going to be the case.

Both Prentiss and Morgan shook their heads.

Emily motioned towards the melancholy images from the first two dump sites. "He dumped the first two boys like garbage. This was different," she said. "Kyle was gently placed on the ground, neatly laid to rest with his arms by his sides."

"It's not like Rollins can feel guilt or remorse," Morgan observed. "He's not capable. Whoever did this cared about him."

"Hugh Rollins definitely killed the first two victims," said Prentiss. "But it doesn't look like he killed Kyle Murphy."

There were a series of sober nods from around the table.

"Rollins told me he dumped Kyle's body in the Delaware River," said Hotch darkly.

"He really doesn't want to go to Trenton State," Grace remarked. "And he's willing to admit to a crime he didn't commit to make sure of that."

"We think Kyle may not have slept in his room last night," Reid put in.

"Where do you think he was?" Hotch asked, as myriad emotions shot over his, JJ, Prentiss and Morgan's faces.

"We think in his brother's room," Spencer told them. "Uh – Danny has bunk beds. Both bunks were slept in – and whoever slept in the bottom one wet the bed and left Kyle's rabbit."

There was a pause. Sooner or later, one of them was going to have to say it out loud, but given where they were and the likely implications, none of them wanted to. In the end, it was Morgan who took the plunge.

"So, do we think someone destroyed Kyle's room to make it look like he was abducted like the other two victims?"

A moment of silence. None of them disagreed. Hotch glanced around the room to check none of the local officers were listening. This was a theory that would be (and make them) extremely unpopular.

"Who else knows the details of all three cases?" he asked, quietly.

"Lancaster…" said Rossi.

The team shifted uncomfortably.

"Morgan, call Garcia – see what she can find out about Lancaster that we don't already know," Hotch instructed. "Reid, Prentiss – watch the video of the press conference, see if you can find anything."

"Want me to talk to Rollins?" Rossi offered.

"Yes. Pearce, talk to Danny again, see if he has anything to say about 'Uncle Bill'."

She nodded, picking up her jacket.

"I don't need to remind anyone where we are," said Hotch, in an undertone that nevertheless carried to all of the agents. "Please be discreet."

Grace caught Spencer's gaze across the table.

Given that suspicion and nosiness were essentially hiring criteria, that was easier said than done in a police department.

0o0

Rollins flinched when Dave closed the door of the interrogation room behind him. He hadn't slammed it, just allowed it to fall shut under its own power, but it was enough to shatter the man's already badly frayed nerves.

He dropped the photograph of Kyle – the same one he had shown him earlier – onto the table top.

"We found Kyle Murphy's body in the woods."

Rollins shut his eyes, accepting the inevitable.

"Why did you lie?" Dave demanded – though he already knew the answer. "You aren't the type to take credit for something you didn't do."

Starting to cry, Rollins broke down. "Can't go to Trenton."

"As long as you're straight with me, I'll tell the DA you cooperated."

Hope, in the form of a shining olive branch, blossomed on the murderer's face.

"Is that what you needed to hear?"

He was trembling from head to foot. "People just don't understand. I can't explain why I do these things! All I know is that I can't help myself! I don't wanna die in prison!"

The words burst out of him, like a dam breaking.

"You're gonna be in one for the rest of your life, Hugh!" Dave told him.

"No, I'm talking about what they do to people like me!"

Dave frowned. His earlier threats really seemed to have got to him.

"I don't wanna go like that!" he cried, in a thin, reedy voice.

"Then tell me the truth."

Rollins stared at him for a long moment, then made up his mind, his face full of apparent self-loathing. "He's too young. He's not my type."

0o0

"Hold that piece steady," Danny instructed, as he glued part of a delicate series of miniature instruments to the undercarriage of the fighter jet.

Patiently, Grace did what she was told. Sometimes interviewing children was all about going around the houses in order to unlock their complex, slightly alien brains. Given what this kid had gone through today (though she wasn't sure his parents had told him that Kyle was dead) she was almost impressed at how calm he was.

"You got a steady hand," he said, when they were in place. "Even if the other one is broke."

"I make miniature houses in my spare time," she told him.

Danny pulled a face. "Girl stuff."

"If you like," she said. "The last one I made was a mad scientist's laboratory – and my friend Penelope helped make an exploding planet a couple of months ago."

"Huh," said the boy, regarding her closely for a minute. Then: "You came back because you have more questions, didn't you?"

Grace smiled. "I'm afraid so. Though I am quite looking forward to seeing the finished jet."

Danny gave her a half smile. "Can I keep working on this while you ask?"

"Sure."

"Okay."

"Where did Danny sleep last night?" she asked, as he rooted through the box for the next part.

To her surprise, Kyle immediately scowled. "In the bottom bunk."

"In your room?"

"Yeah. He's not supposed to."

"But he does it anyway?"

Danny nodded, glaring into the box. "It's supposed to be for my friends."

"Do you remember hearing anything early this morning before you got up?"

He shook his head.

_Interesting._

"Was Danny out of bed when you got up?"

"No, he was still sleeping. I went to watch cartoons."

"In the family room?"

"No, in the front room. I didn't want to wake up Mom and Dad."

_So you were on the far side of the house._

"While you were watching cartoons, were the curtains open or shut?"

"Shut," he said. "Or the screen's all bright and you can't see."

_Which means you couldn't have seen if anyone passed the window or came up the drive. Hmm…_

_And now for the really sticky line of questioning._

"Do you like hanging out with Detective Lancaster?"

Danny looked confused for a moment, before realising who she meant. "Uncle Bill? He's okay. He's Dad's friend."

"Does he ever come over when your parents are out?" she asked, shifting to a more comfortable sitting position.

Danny shrugged. "He watches us sometimes."

"Watches how?" Grace asked. She was pretty sure he meant 'baby sat', but it was worth double checking.

"When Mom and Dad go out. We watch sport and eat popcorn."

"You like when he comes over, huh?"

"Yeah. Sometimes he reads Kyle a bedtime story."

"Does he?"

"Uh-huh. He used to read to me, too, but I told him I'm grown up. I can hear him from my room."

Grace narrowed her eyes. Now, did he mean that? If Danny had been the one to end the behaviour it could be entirely honest.

"What does he do after he finishes reading the story?" she asked, as delicately as she could.

"He comes and checks on me and then goes downstairs."

"He doesn't stay upstairs?"

"Nope. One time, I had a fever and he stayed up, reading _Watership Down_. But usually he goes and watches the football."

_Okay,_ Grace thought. _Probably not a sexual thing, then. So how did Kyle die? Did he get angry?_

"Did you see Uncle Bill this morning?" she asked. "Before your parents got up?"

"No," he said, with a certainty that might have helped exonerate his dad's old friend if he'd been in the same part of the house as Kyle.

But no one else had had access to the house except Lancaster – and he knew the details of the earlier killings. Someone had made this look like the same killer, and there was really only one person who could have done that.

"Thanks Danny."

"Hold this for me."

0o0

Dave was covertly monitoring the department and Morgan was flicking through everything they had on Kyle's disappearance when Penelope called.

"Yeah, Garcia. What've you got?"

"_Hi, who's there?"_ she asked, unusually tactful.

"Just me and Rossi," he told her.

"_I found something… notable on Lancaster."_

Morgan bit his lip, not failing to catch his friend's hesitation. He shared a speaking look with Dave. It was risky having this kind of conversation in the middle of a bullpen that might, at any moment, become decidedly hostile – particularly if they handled this incorrectly. They both heard the door to Lancaster's office open behind him and turned to find the man himself emerging.

Dave shot Morgan a look and the younger agent immediately took the phone and his conversation with Garcia elsewhere. Dave acknowledged the detective's presence with a nod.

"Well, I just talked to Dan and Sarah," said Lancaster heavily.

"How did they take the news?" Dave asked, watching the worried angle of the other man's brow.

"'Bout how you'd expect."

"Really?"

Lancaster held his gaze; Dave counted as far as ten before he tore his gaze away.

_Here it comes,_ he thought.

"Listen, uh… I wanna thank you for all you've done, for me and everybody who's on this case. I think we can handle everything from here."

_Bingo!_

Rossi nodded, keeping his voice and expression as calm and immovable as he could make it. "Well, we're not going anywhere, Bill."

There it was, that momentary confusion; the second-space of wondering whether they knew what he had done. Dave had seen it cross the faces of a thousand unsubs. And now it was crossing Bill Lancaster's.

"Did you know Kyle liked to sleep in Danny's room?" he asked and the expression froze in place. "Or that Kyle had been wetting the bed?"

"No…"

Dave made a decision. He could see the deception in Lancaster now, and all the evidence pointed to his involvement. Better step in now, before he had the chance to tamper with anything else.

"Because if you had, you would have known to trash Danny's room instead of Kyle's and made it look like Kyle had been taken from there."

Lancaster did his best to look confused, but not confused enough. He was a bad liar. He'd been using their acceptance of his grief as a shield up to now, and at least some of that had to be genuine, given how he'd deposited the little boy's body, but that wasn't going to fly anymore.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he said, looking around for a way out.

"Kyle's disappearance," Dave continued, stepping into the detective's personal bubble. "It was made to look like the two other boys'. Whoever did this had knowledge of the other two murders."

The detective's body language shifted from confused to defensive, but Dave could tell that he had half been expecting this; he was already braced for it.

"Listen to me," he said, walking to the board and pointing at the photo of Jimmy Seeger. "Rollins murdered these two kids. He should go away for all of 'em."

And there it was, the tacit confession. The justification.

Maybe he hadn't started out a bad cop, Dave mused, but he was one now.

"Losing a child is a horrible thing," he said carefully, giving the man the opportunity to back off; telling him that he knew how it felt. "But if someone has been murdered – if someone is concealing a crime? _They are going to jail_."

"Rossi, you have a killer in custody. We've got this guy. Let's end it now."

To his credit, he didn't beg – but that was worse, somehow. The unerring conviction that what he had done was right.

Morgan strode up, assessed their body language and took a position behind and to the side of Lancaster, effectively bottlenecking any possible escape route.

"Can we take this into your office?" he asked, in a calm voice that promised it wouldn't remain calm for long if he said 'no'.

After all, they were doing him a favour, letting him take this off the main drag, allowing him the time to explain himself – and compose himself before having to face the men and women whose trust he had betrayed.

_But how far had that betrayal gone?_ Dave wondered, as the two agents followed him in. Was he protecting someone – Dan or Sarah, perhaps? Or had he done more than tailor the evidence to suit their needs. Had he hurt Kyle?

Morgan closed the door behind them. Best not to be overheard. Not just yet.

"What really happened?" Dave asked. Detective Lancaster turned a defiant and mournful countenance on them both, but didn't immediately answer, so Dave continued, "I know Dan has been a friend of yours for a long time, but you have an obligation to protect and serve."

Where he had been reticent before, Lancaster responded immediately to that phrase – the mantra of the serving officer.

"You gonna tell me what my obligations are?" he demanded angrily. "I've been a cop for twenty-three years!"

"Rollins didn't kill Kyle."

"You don't know that!"

Morgan folded his arms. "Yes, we do." That got his attention. "Why did you try to pin this on Rollins?"

"I'd never even heard of Rollins until you thought of him as a suspect," Lancaster spat. "Look, that son of a bitch rapes and kills innocent children! He woulda hurt somebody else's kid, until you caught 'im!"

He could shout and rail as much as he wanted; it was about as much use as hollering at a rock. Neither Dave nor Morgan, nor any of the others were going to leave this alone until they knew exactly what had happened.

"What does that have to do with Kyle?" Dave asked.

Lancaster clamped his lips shut, trying to watch what his temper and grief made him say. He managed to calm himself down enough to ferociously meet their gaze. "I am asking you – _look the other way_. Please."

"No."

"Detective, that would be framing somebody for murder," said Morgan, evenly.

"Rollins didn't kill Kyle," said Dave. "But you know who did."

_But not you, I think. You woulda given up by now – and you wouldn't have pleaded._

"They are my friends," the man said desperately.

"Well," said Dave, once again moving closer to Lancaster, "I think you left their son's body in the woods. Now, what kind of friend does that?"

Lancaster shook his head, then retreated behind the desk.

It was Morgan's turn to step into the detective's comfort zone. "Were you ever going to tell us about your family?"

Lancaster's face darkened considerably. "They've got nothin' to do with this."

Morgan reached into his back pocket for a printout that could only have come from Garcia – a news article with the photographs of two children at the top. He held it up so Lancaster could see. It was an emotional battering ram, based on the way the man tried to fold into himself.

"Your children were killed in a car accident two years ago," said Morgan, gently but mercilessly. "Your wife divorced you right after. Your loss has everything to do with this."

"You've got nothing left," Dave observed, as Morgan let the article fall onto the table, where the other man retrieved it. "You can afford to break the rules. Take a risk. Frame Rollins for Kyle's murder."

"Rollins didn't kill Kyle and you know who did," Morgan insisted.

"Okay, I did it." He looked calmer, but that was an easy thing to manage, once a decision like that had been made. "I killed Kyle."

There was a moment of stunned silence. From Morgan's body language, he didn't believe it either.

"What?"

Morgan picked up a notepad, which he flung down in front of the man, and stuck a pen in his face. "Put it in writing."

0o0

The Murphys were sitting in the staffroom of the Cherry Hill Police Department. Dan and Sarah were huddled together on one side of the table, looking miserable and afraid, while Danny sat grumpily opposite.

Emily met Grace's gaze over their heads. There hadn't really been anywhere else to put them

Both women tensed when Hotch came in. They both recognised _that_ look.

Sensing the change in the room, Dan Murphy looked up.

Hotch addressed him quietly. "Detective Lancaster just confessed."

Emily felt her mouth fall open. Across the room, Grace was staring at Hotch as if he'd turned up to work wearing hot pants. Dan and Sarah Murphy stared from Hotch, to one another, then back again. It seemed to Emily that they were doing some very quick thinking.

Tellingly, Dan neither immediately refuted this news (as someone whose friend has just admitted to murdering his son might) nor broke down. He was far too calm.

"I need to see him," he said.

"First we need you to confirm the timeline again and compare it to Lancaster's statement."

_Good, you don't believe this confession any more than we do,_ she thought, watching his face.

"Both of you."

"What about Danny?" Sarah asked at once.

"He doesn't need to hear any more of this," said Hotch. "Prentiss, Pearce, do you mind?"

"We've got it," said Emily, as Grace nodded.

She and Danny had built up a little bit of a rapport.

"We can talk in here," said Hotch, escorting them into an interrogation room.

Emily caught Sarah Murphy's expression as she left the room: pure terror. But for whom?


	4. Closer to Home

**So, I suck! I'm having a bit of a battle with my mental health at the moment, which means that even though I've actually had a bunch of chapters ready this entire time, I haven't even managed to turn my laptop on since April. Anyway, I'm getting sort of back into the groove after several weeks of just binge-watching **_**Riverdale**_** and failing to research old horror movies, so it should be business as usual for a bit – at least in terms of the fic. **

**I've got some big choices to make in the coming weeks about my writing and this series and stuff.**

**In the meantime, thanks – as ever – for being the fabulously supportive and friendly souls that you are.**

**Love you to pieces!**

**Pxx **

**0o0**

**Essential Listening: Bells Ring, by Mazzy Star**

"Am I in trouble?" Danny asked, as soon as the door to the interrogation room closed.

This was directed towards Grace, who had spent a little time with him over the last, long, unpleasant day.

"No," she said at once. "Our boss just wants to talk to your mum and dad about Uncle Bill."

"They're just through here," said Emily, opening the blinds on the glazed part of the door, so Danny could see them. "Can you see them okay?"

"Uh huh," he said, quietly.

Emily sat down across from him, wishing she had more experience relating to kids. Grace always seemed ultra-tense around small humans, and while Emily wasn't sure why (some people just didn't get along with children, so it wasn't a thread she felt the need to pull), it meant her friend would be less than no help in this situation. At least as far as it came to dispelling some of the awkwardness.

She leaned against the cupboards behind Danny, one eye on him and one on his parents, occasionally sending glances in Emily's direction to check she was okay with this.

"Can I have a snack?" the boy asked abruptly.

"Sure," said Emily.

"Let's see what we have," said Grace, apparently happy to have something to do with her hands, rummaging in the cupboards.

Emily knew what she was looking for. In every staffroom in every law enforcement workplace the world over, there was a Cupboard with a capital C. It varied in size and location, but it was always stocked with several varieties of high-starch, high-sugar, high-salt junk food. By mutual consent, anyone could take something from the Cupboard if they needed it (and folk who worked the kind of hours with the kind of stress that law enforcement did _always_ needed it), on the understanding that they would replace what they had taken – if not with the same product, at least with something similar. Like a sort of lending library for snacks.

No one would begrudge Danny dipping into it, especially if Grace made a stop at the Seven Eleven before they left. At Cherry Hill, the officers and detectives appeared to favour the last cupboard before the wall for this purpose, as if it was being vaguely, subliminally covert.

"Aha," Grace said in triumph, when she opened it. "Looks like salt and vinegar Pringles, Cheetos or some seriously out of date popcorn. What's your poison?"

"Cheetos."

"Wise decision."

0o0

Aaron surveyed the Murphys dispassionately. Based on Bill Lancaster's behaviour, one or both of these two people had murdered Kyle – and then tried to bury their crime beneath the murders of another. But which was it?

"You didn't seem surprised when I told you that Bill had confessed," he said, watching their tense, terrified body language.

They were still holding hands almost desperately, as if they were afraid of losing one another as well as Kyle.

_An accident, then?_

"How am I supposed to act?" Dan asked, looking drained. "You know, we should really be in there with Danny."

"Danny's fine," said Aaron.

"First you said it's Rollins, now it's Bill," Dan was saying, but Aaron was looking at Sarah.

What he saw was a woman at emotional breaking point. She stared back at him, almost mesmerised.

"The only thing I know is that Kyle's gone." Dan rubbed a hand over his tear-stained face.

Aaron sat down, leaning forward a little to encourage candour, but not too much. Their grief was genuine and he was damned if he could figure out which of them had killed their son, but this was a thread he had to keep pulling at. Kyle deserved justice.

"You know a lot more than that," he said, putting it baldly.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Dan made an effort at looking confused, but his heart wasn't entirely in it; Sarah's less so.

That was a thing that could work to their advantage. Aaron turned to her. "Your friend confessed to something he didn't do."

Sarah's face crumpled and she hid her face in her hands and made a noise of distress – but also one of decision. "That's enough," she said, and when her husband turned to her, sobbing, she shook her head. "We can't do this anymore."

0o0

"You – uh – got any games here?" Danny asked.

His parents had been in the interrogation room for barely ten minutes and he was already bored, which was unsurprising. Unless you were a cop or being interviewed by one, police stations were pretty boring from a nine year old's standpoint.

Emily shared a look with Grace, who shrugged.

"No, I don't think so," she said.

"I can probably find you paper and a bunch of highlighters if you feel like drawing," Grace offered, but Danny shook his head.

"Can I watch cartoons?"

"Sure, yeah," said Emily, picking up the remote. "Let's see if we can find some."

The TV in the breakroom was one of those ancient, wood panelled CRTs that make interesting sounds when they power up and turn off, and was destined to be super grainy, but it couldn't hurt to look.

The first thing that came up, of course, was the news, playing the press conference about Kyle's abduction (and now, the discovery of his body) on loop. Emily switched off it as quickly as she could, flicking through the local channels. She was about to lament the fact that there only seemed to be news, DIY or chat shows, when Danny started punching the Cheetos bag on the table.

"Hey, stop!" she cried.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Grace exclaimed, and pulled the squashed bag out of the way. "What's all this?"

"It wouldn't open!"

"That's no reason to beat it to crumbs," said Grace, slowly. "Do you want me to open it for you?"

"Yes."

"Here."

She handed it back and looked at Emily, wearing the same concerned, what-if expression that she suspected was on her face, too.

That level of rage over a packet of Cheetos just wasn't normal. Either there was a heck of a lot more going on here than just Kyle's death or…

As one, the two agents' eyes flicked back to the boy who was sulkily eating Cheeto fragments. Looking back up, Grace gave the minutest of nods, telling Emily to take the lead – she would back her up.

Emily nodded back and took a seat. "Do you – um – get mad like that a lot?"

Danny extracted another Cheeto from the bag. "My mom says I have a bad temper."

"Huh," said Emily, glancing up at Grace again.

"My old boss used to say the same thing about me," said Grace conversationally. "I had to go for anger management training."

_Did you?_ Emily thought, raising an eyebrow. _Or are you just trying to maintain your rapport?_

"Did it work?" Danny asked, though he looked disinterested.

"Yeah, I haven't punched anyone in years."

It might have been a joke, but there was just something about the way she said it that made Emily question that. But now wasn't the time.

She sat down between them with her drink, making it look entirely natural and not like they had both had the same thought about how much damage a seriously angry nine-year old might be able to do if they struck a nerve. Better to keep this friendly, non-threatening. Low-key.

"Did you and Kyle used to play together a lot?" Emily asked.

Danny shook his head. "Only when I had to. He was annoying." He looked at Grace, who nodded, pretending her attention was on the TV, where someone was building a cabinet. "He was always breaking my stuff."

"Yeah, I had a little cousin who did that," Emily told him. "It would make me crazy."

Danny's eyebrows flicked upwards for a second. "Not gonna miss that."

He just sounded so… cold. So disconnected.

"He would always sleep in my room," he complained.

Emily watched the way he balled up his fist on the table, increasingly unnerved. "I heard Kyle liked your bunk beds."

"They weren't for him," Danny said, with some venom. "They were for my friends. He was always wetting the bed, like a baby."

"Is that why you didn't wanna play with him?" Emily asked. "He _was _a baby, wasn't he?"

"Yeah, but he thought he was big enough to play with me," Danny retorted, meeting Emily's gaze. She didn't like what she saw there. "Like today, he broke my model plane! Took me all week to make it!"

"Danny's really good at making models," Grace said, giving him a smile that looked wholly natural, but that didn't fool Emily one bit. "Listen, I've gotta go call my friend JJ. Will you be alright here?"

The question was directed at Danny, but Emily knew it was also for her, so when he nodded she said, "Yeah, I'm good."

"I won't be long."

_No, but by the time you're back I'd bet good money JJ will be calling child services to send an experienced liaison, there will be at least two officers posted outside this room and Garcia will have all of Danny's school records to hand,_ Emily thought_. And psych records, if they'd taken him to a psychiatrist. _

She would have. But then, she was a profiler, not a parent.

"Today…" Emily said, when Grace had left the room. "The model plane. How'd that happen?"

"I'd got up early. I had it all set up in the basement," Danny told her dispassionately.

"What time was that?" Emily asked carefully.

Danny shrugged. "Early. Everyone else was asleep."

"And Kyle came downstairs?"

"Yeah, I'd just finished. He asked if he could play with it, and I didn't want him to, but Dad says I have to share, so I said he could look at it," said Danny, eating his way through the Cheetos. "When I turned around he'd dropped it and it smashed into a million pieces."

He scowled.

Emily swallowed. "And did that make you angry?"

"Yeah. He never listened. So I made him listen."

"And how did you do that?"

"I hit him," he said, shrugging. "I got on top of him and I hit him until he stopped crying."

"And after that?"

"I tried to fix the plane he ruined."

"You didn't go and get your mom and dad?"

"No. I wanted to fix the plane."

He took a drink of Sprite, looking for all the world as if they were talking about something innocent.

_None of this is right_, thought Emily. _No wonder they're all lying. They want to protect him. But they can't – not from this._

"And after you did that to Kyle, how did you feel?"

"Like I'd get in trouble," he said.

She waited, but he didn't say anything else. Just kept eating his snack and watching the TV.

0o0

"He kept saying 'I'm sorry'," Dan Murphy told him, sobbing.

"I was so angry at Danny," said Sarah, tearfully. "But I couldn't lose him, too."

Aaron looked down at the table, shaking his head. He got it – he would do almost anything for Jack. But he wasn't sure if he do this.

He tried not to judge them too harshly as they related how they had called Bill Lancaster and had taken over, trying to keep their surviving son out of penitentiary. How they had gone through the motions of the abduction and appeal, hoping Danny would be safe, Bill assuring them that it was alright, because it would help bring a murderer to justice.

He shook his head.

"So, you took Danny to the woods," Rossi said.

It had taken some time, but eventually he and Morgan had managed to break through the detective's wavering defences.

Lancaster sighed. "They're good people. They didn't deserve to lose both kids. I wrapped him in a blanket and took him down the old service road. Then I found somewhere quiet and peaceful for him. I thought if he was under a tree, he wouldn't get rained on…"

_Which is how we knew it couldn't be Rollins,_ thought Aaron, grimly.

"It didn't feel right, leaving him there. But I kept tellin' myself, 'This is what happened to the others'. I had to do it," Lancaster told them, as Sarah and Dan sobbed in each other's arms. "Kyle would be the third victim and we would catch a bad guy. A real bad guy."

Staring through the glass, he sighed. Since Pearce had come out of the break room to tell them what she and Emily had found out from Danny, the whole team had been unusually quiet. Reid, Morgan and Pearce were there now, watching the detective and his friends breaking down with stony expressions.

"And they might still be…" Lancaster said, haltingly. "They might get a chance to be a family again."

They often looked on the face of evil, Aaron reflected, but generally the one wearing it wasn't quite so young. It was a shock to the system.

They all looked around as JJ came in, relieved, he thought, to have their attention snatched away from the scene within.

"Kyle Murphy's autopsy report," she said, handing them all copies.

"Poor kid," said Pearce, taking hers with a sigh.

"Two post-mortem hits to the head," Morgan observed, reading quickly.

"First one was shallow," Aaron added quietly, scanning the summary. "Clearly, he hesitated."

Reid had got to the part where it listed injuries sustained post-mortem. "Lancaster had to hit Kyle to make sure the wounds were consistent with Rollins' victims."

Aaron raised his eyebrows, glancing up at Sarah and Dan. "I'm glad he spared them that part of his story."

"Look on the second page," JJ advised, darkly.

There was the sound of four agents turning paper over, then shocked, horrified silence.

_Oh God,_ thought Aaron.

"Emily needs to see this," said Pearce, in a tight voice, and went out of the room.

They waited.

Sure enough, a couple of minutes passed and Prentiss appeared in the interrogation room, armed with the autopsy report. Pearce had evidently elected to stay with Danny. Wordlessly, Prentiss handed the report to Rossi and Aaron watched as the horror he was feeling spread over his friend's face, too.

Prentiss face the Murphys. This wasn't going to be pleasant, but it needed to be done.

"Danny told me what he did to Kyle," she said bluntly. "Do you know what he did?"

Dan nodded painfully. "Yes, we know."

"_Everything_ he did?"

They both looked up at her, surprised.

_That's a 'no', then._

"Danny stuffed plane parts down Kyle's throat."

"What?" Dan gasped. Sarah shook her head, appalled and disbelieving.

Lancaster turned away. "Oh God," he whispered.

He, of the three of them, knew what they were truly dealing with. What they had been trying to protect.

"He wouldn't do that!" Dan protested.

"You told Danny to watch his temper," said Prentiss, in lieu of arguing pointlessly. "What else did you worry about?"

Both the Murphys stared at her, shaking their heads. Neither of them really understood. Not really.

"Danny said you had a puppy," Prentiss went on, controlling her voice. "But he died."

"Oh, God," Sarah gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.

Deep down, she must have known. Somewhere so deep in her subconscious that she couldn't see the danger – but she'd known. That gasp had said it all.

"Your son is ill," said Prentiss. "And he needs help. The truth is… the only thing Danny isn't capable of, is remorse. He feels nothing."

Dan and Sarah reached for each other, trembling.

"The son that you were trying to protect… is a sociopath."

As one, they turned and looked through the window that led to the break room, where Pearce was sitting quietly with Danny.

Morgan sighed.

Beside him, Reid shifted his weight. "Some days, I hate this job."

0o0

They had done him the courtesy of waiting until after shift change, so that the Police Department wasn't packed with people, but already the news had got out and officers were shooting covert looks at Detective Lancaster's office – and at the man posted outside it to make sure he didn't flee.

Reid suspected he wouldn't, though. Everything he had done had been in the service of people he considered family. He had long since accepted the consequences. When he'd tried to fight them, it had been to protect Dan and Sarah and the life he thought they ought still to have.

_And the boy who murdered his brother just because he was annoying_, thought Spencer.

He glanced at JJ, who was leaning on the filing cabinet beside him. She grimaced. She had sat with Grace and Danny for nearly an hour before the specialist juvenile representative had arrived and they could arrest him. He had gone kicking and screaming, upset because his parents had let them take him, capable of only feeling his own pain.

"If we'd let him get away with it, how likely would it be that Danny would kill again?" she asked, in an undertone, as Rossi and Morgan went into Lancaster's office.

"Statistically? One hundred percent," he replied quietly.

She shook her head. "What will happen to him?"

"Realistically, he'll probably face a life in secure institutions," Spencer told her. "Although the federal courts dislike labelling minors, they can't really ignore what he's done, or claim that he won't be a danger to others."

Grace joined them, appearing silently on his other side, a grim expression on her face. Spencer guessed that she didn't like when they had to arrest a cop – even if they had broken the law.

"It's time," said Rossi.

The three young agents watched as Lancaster laid a framed photograph of his family down on the desk. "I spent my life on the streets, and I couldn't be there for them," he said.

Spencer guessed he was referring to his kids. He took off his badge and gun belt (the weapon itself had been removed some hours earlier).

"Every day I wonder why it wasn't me in that car," he said fiercely, consumed with anger and grief. "And why I have to live every single day without them."

Beside Spencer, Grace shifted her weight ever so slightly. Guessing the direction of her thoughts, he did the same until his arm was brushing against hers. It wasn't like he could do anything more open – not in the middle of a Police Department, with the whole team milling around. Sometimes, though, the slightest acknowledgement of a pain was enough, particularly when it was something she kept so close. JJ knew, he thought, and Will. After that first time when seeing their infant son had chased her off, they had been much gentler and more circumspect around her with him, so she must have told one or both of them. Which was good. It meant she had begun to be able to confide in the others. It made it feel like she would be a more permanent fixture than before, somehow, as if some of her impenetrable walls had come down.

Not for the first time, he wondered what their lives would have been like if Michael had survived whatever it was that had killed him.

A little brighter, perhaps.

Strangely, he couldn't imagine a world where she hadn't come to Quantico.

She moved again, folding her arms; his were crossed, too, and he contrived to skim his thumb along the back of her elbow. The minutest amount of tension eased from her shoulders.

Lancaster, of course, was oblivious to this. "You know… when Dan called I thought, 'Maybe this is it. Maybe I'm suffering so he doesn't have to.'"

"Your kids died in an accident," said Morgan gently. "Nobody can make sense of that. This family – your friends – they lost both kids the minute Danny killed Kyle."

He seemed to accept that, at least, and moved towards the door – and the officer waiting to arrest him. He paused and turned back to them.

"What does it even mean, anyway?"

"What does what mean?" Rossi asked.

"'Protect and serve'. We all say it every day. Protect who? Serve who?" He shook his head. "That piece of human waste in the other room murdered at least two kids."

_More,_ thought Spencer._ He had so many trophies in his closet, there have to be more. But that doesn't mean you can say he killed someone else just so a kid with no capability of remorse can get away with murder._

"You know what he is. You're the ones that found him." Lancaster's voice cracked. "And that decent family – that decent, loving…" He faltered. "How did anything that happened today, serve anyone? Huh?"

"We don't get to choose," said Grace, and Lancaster turned to stare at her.

Sometimes Spencer forgot she had been a cop, too, before she had moved to the BAU.

"If we had let Rollins go down for Danny's crime as well as his own, that boy would have killed again," she said, a hard expression on her face. "Maybe not this year, maybe not next, but he would have. Someone would have looked at him the wrong way, or broken another of his planes. And then we, or your colleagues, or _our_ colleagues in a different state – wherever he ended up – would be having to inform someone else's loving, decent family that their loved one was dead." She paused, punctuating her following words with a wave of her hands. "_That's_ who we serve. _That's_ who we protect. The people who it hasn't happened to yet. So that they don't ever have to go through this."

Lancaster cast his eyes at the ground, unable to hold her gaze. "You were a cop, huh?"

"For six years, before I joined the FBI."

"And you know what it's like to lose a child?"

The question floored Spencer like a punch to the gut and he heard JJ gasp, but Grace didn't move a muscle, just kept on looking at him with that unflinching, steely gaze, until Rossi had had enough.

"We don't get to pick who wins, detective," he said. "Even if that means no one does."

He let them cuff him and escort him to the front desk, where he had to be signed out before they could transport him to another facility – as much for his safety as anything else.

JJ glanced up at Spencer and then put a hand on Grace's arm, confirming his suspicions. "Are you okay?"

Grace nodded, still looking at the back of Lancaster's head. "Yeah."

The media liaison bit her lip and then hurried away, probably to make arrangements for their own departure and get them all out of there as quickly as possible.

"Did you have a motto like that in the Met?" Spencer wondered aloud, trying to think of anything that might take her mind off her little boy.

To his surprise, Grace gave a derisive snort. "'Total policing', which is just so fucking 'Met'. 'To protect and serve' is a damn sight better sounding."

Spencer followed her gaze. "Makes you wonder…"

"What?"

"Whether he would ever have done what he did, if Dan Murphy hadn't called him."

"In the service of a friend. And so the mighty fall…" Then she sighed and he felt the back of her hand brush against his in a way that was not altogether accidental. "We are servants of the people," she said quietly, watching them lead him away. "But also of justice and the truth. When coppers forget that, everything goes sideways."

He nodded, wondering exactly who it was she was remembering with that far off, haunted look in her eyes.

0o0

_Without a family, man, alone in the world, trembles with the cold._

_Andre Maurois_


	5. Big Wheel

**Essential Listening: All Mapped Out, by The Departure**

JJ watched the faces of her team mates, all gazing at the video that had been sent to the Buffalo Police Department. It made for decidedly odd viewing – and she had already watched it twice. It seemed like a relatively ordinary film until the end, just a man going about his rather strange day – until he walked into an open house and murdered the realtor. On film.

Most of them were frowning, waiting for the inevitable; a couple were sitting back, drinking their coffee, Spence was tapping his pen against the edge of his cup, lost in thought, Grace was chewing the end of hers. Garcia, an unusual addition to the usual collection of agents gathered around the table in the situation room, was attempting to both watch the home movie and hide her gaze behind her hand at the same time, trying to avoid seeing anything appalling.

JJ wondered what it was like working an ordinary job.

She waited until the very end of the film, where the camera focused on the eye of the woman whose life had been so unflinchingly cut short, and Garcia was actively using her notebook to shield her eyes with her notebook, and turned it off.

"Her name's Michelle Watson," she told them. "A realtor murdered in Buffalo a week ago."

"Until yesterday they had nothing, no leads," Hotch expanded. "And then they got this."

"Buffalo PD received it from an unknown source, yesterday," JJ continued, setting the video going again.

"They able to trace it?" Emily asked.

JJ shook her head.

"No. Sent through an encrypted server from the Ukraine," Hotch said.

"There's no sound," Morgan observed.

"Yeah, and at first glance, there doesn't seem to be a single frame to identify who shot it," Reid interjected. "He even covered up the mirror."

"Is that to stop us seeing them, or to stop them seeing themselves?" Grace asked. "A range of conditions and disorders can be associated with covering mirrors."

"Yeah," Reid agreed. "And there's nothing to say that this is the work of only one cameraperson."

"I have seen some crazy things sitting at this table," said Garcia, shaking her head. "But that? Urgh. Why send that to the police?"

"Well, maybe it's a taunt," Emily suggested. "Show the police how smart he is."

"Catch me if you can," said Rossi, over his shoulder.

"I don't know," said Grace. "It feels more like an art film than a taunt. Have the Buffalo PD checked into local deviant porn rings? It could be someone with a history of making snuff films."

"I thought snuff films were all fake!" Garcia exclaimed, appalled.

Grace gave her an odd look. "And yet, you work here?"

"If they have, it's not in the file," said JJ.

"Garcia –" Hotch began, but she waved her extremely flamboyant pen.

"I got it. I got it. That British lady over there might besmirch my flawless reputation, but I will be hunting down the purveyors of snuff-based filth and making a new, creepy database for you people to cross-check against."

Said British agent rolled her eyes in a fond sort of way.

"The two people in the video," Morgan pointed out, as the film rolled on, showing an elderly woman and a younger man – possibly her son – getting into a car. "They look directly at the unsub, but neither one seems to realise they're bein' filmed."

"I think it's probably a hidden camera," said Reid.

"The witnesses were able to give us enough for a sketch," JJ told them, handing a stack of copies to Emily to pass around. "White male, early thirties, wearing glasses."

The film had looped again, to a dark room, near the start. Editing equipment was laid out in front of an old TV that seemed to be playing a much older tape.

"Looks like an editing suite," said Morgan.

"So, he not only films the murder, he edits it," Rossi observed.

"And gets to relive his kills over and over. Is that another murder we're watching?" Grace asked, squinting.

"Yeah, do we know what this is that's playing on the monitor?" Emily put in.

"Buffalo PD is concerned that it might be another filmed killing," Hotch told them.

Emily raised a dark brow. "Well, if it is, we're not just looking at one murder, but two."

Hotch nodded. "Buffalo's underfunded, undermanned and – they need our help."

"Buffalo's a gang town," said Morgan thoughtfully.

"Murder rate in the last year alone was over seven hundred people," JJ added.

"This doesn't look gang-related to me," Grace commented.

"No, but with everything else they have going on, they might have missed earlier victims," Hotch reasoned. "Garcia, I need you to go through this frame by frame and put everything on discs."

"Yes sir," she said, gathering her things and getting to her feet. "I'm on it."

She got as far as the door before he called her back. "Also, put together a go bag. If we get any more of these films I want you on the ground taking point." He looked at her. "Is that okay with you?"

Garcia looked astonished, but nodded. "Yes sir. Okay." She turned and walked slowly away. JJ heard her friend mutter, "Go bag. I'm gonna have a go bag."

Unable to prevent the smile spreading across her face, JJ fixed her gaze on her shoes for a few beats, before Hotch asked her to take the video back a few frames.

"There's something I want everyone to see."

JJ nodded, knowing exactly which bit he meant; he'd marked it out earlier, when she had briefed him.

The view was of a blank wall, but not for long.

"He's writing something," said Emily.

Transfixed, the team watched as the unsub's hand moved through the strokes of each letter, spelling out – in thick red marker – 'HELP ME'."

0o0

_In order for the light to shine so brightly, the darkness must be present._

_Francis Bacon_

0o0

The jet seemed a lot fuller than usual, despite the fact there was only one extra body present. It was probably down to how brightly Garcia was dressed, Grace thought. It made the place seem automatically cheerier, despite the subject they were discussing.

She shifted position, perching beside Hotch on the little table opposite the main one, Rossi having installed himself off to one side. Her wrist was really beginning to dislike being in the cast and she was vaguely hopeful her physician would allow her to have it removed soon. Until that happened, she was having to balance her file awkwardly on top of it.

"Serial killer askin' for help," Morgan mused, looking at a still of the unsub's message. "Well, that's a new one on me."

"Attempt at sarcasm?" Rossi suggested.

"What if he's sincere?" Hotch asked.

"Then he's deeply ambivalent," Rossi reasoned. "He wants to stop, but – like an alcoholic – he simply can't."

"But how is that possible?" Reid asked. "The level of rage we're seeing in the earlier cases is suggestive of sociopathy – he should be incapable of empathy or remorse."

Grace pulled a face. "I guess they could have somehow begun to see things differently," she said. "Maybe as a result of head trauma? That does unexpected things to people – like that British comic actor who got a railway spike to the head and lost the ability to find things funny*. Usually extreme stress increases the desire to kill, rather than decreasing it."

"Like Phineas Gage!" Spencer cried, with excitement. "He was involved in a railroad accident and an iron spike got driven through his brain. It changed his personality forever!"

"I thought the mental effects of that were exaggerated after his death," Grace remarked.

"Yes but –"

"Guys," said Hotch, gently reminding them that they were, in fact, at work, and not at leisure to get distracted.

"Sorry."

"Sorry," Grace echoed, sharing a chastened look with her friend.

"When we see him drivin', his point of view is elevated," said Morgan, who had been ignoring the interchange in favour of examining the stills from the video. "I'd say he's drivin' a van or an SUV."

"And the film stops where it starts, at his home," Emily pointed out. "So, we could use the footage to trace back, street by street from the crime scene, right?"

"The film only lasts nine minutes," said Reid, pulling out one of the stills from the stack on the table. "And in this frame –" He held it so they could all see. "– he clearly looks at a clock that says nine twenty-two."

Prentiss pulled out the autopsy report. "Okay, the autopsy says Michelle Watson's time of death was four-thirty in the afternoon. He edited out seven hours."

"Still, the locations of those street might give us something," Grace mused. "He must have passed through some CCTV somewhere. If an ANPR camera logged him, we might be able to get his address from his license."

"ALPR," said Spencer, without looking up.

"Sorry," said Grace, mentally rolling her eyes at herself. "Got my Met head on."

"Garcia, look for unsolved murders of women in their early thirties who were stabbed in Buffalo, or the surrounding cities," Hotch instructed her. "Go back ten years."

Morgan frowned. "Wouldn't VICAP have already picked that up, though?"

Garcia made a sound that suggested that no, they wouldn't. "VICAP only went web-based about a month ago," she said, shaking her head. "And Buffalo PD only recently uploaded the data."

Grace pressed her lips together. She remembered being a part of a department like that.

"Michelle Watson's holding a date planner," Morgan pointed out, going back to the stills. "They find that at the crime scene?"

"Yeah, that, her wallet and all of her jewellery, including a 3 carat diamond ring," Spencer replied, raising an eyebrow. "So we know he's not financially motivated."

Garcia, who had been running her search at the laptop on the table during this discussion. She looked up at Hotch, a little wide-eyed. "First count – I have twenty-two."

"Whoa," Grace exclaimed.

0o0

"Twenty-two?" Detective Lynne Henderson asked, astonished, as she joined the team in their temporary situation room. "We had six! You think there could be that many?"

"We went back ten years and included surrounding cities," Hotch explained. "The unsub may be out of his comfort zone."

"Now, they may not all be connected, but they all match Michelle's type," Emily told her. "Blonde, white, early thirties."

"The autopsy reports will help us to determine which of these cases is connected," Hotch said.

"I'll get 'em here right away," the detective promised, nodding at the officer who had helped the team set up. He hurried away to rustle up some reports.

"We also need to take a look at the crime scenes, Detective Henderson," Hotch added.

"Has Michelle Watson been laid to rest, yet?" Grace asked.

"Not yet. The family want to catch this bastard as much as we do."

She nodded. "Then I'd like to go see if she can tell us anything more."

"I'll stay and help Reid," Rossi announced.

Hotch nodded at both of them. "I'll go with Prentiss and Morgan."

The four agents stalked out. Spencer watched them go, wondering if – assuming they had time for dinner – Grace might be persuaded to get back into the discussion about Phineas Gage.

JJ, who had already fielded most of the necessary calls, turned and began pinning up the stills to the boards they had been allocated. Behind her, Garcia began plugging her equipment in and Spencer prepared to deep dive into the six files Buffalo Police Department had already identified.

Rossi joined Detective Henderson and for a minute, both were silent, watching the video someone had set up on loop in the corner of the room.

"Tell me," she said. "You think this is a one-off, or can I expect more films?"

"Not a one off," Rossi confirmed. "The filming of his kills makes him a sexual psychopath. We'll find more. Many more. Just like this one."

He walked back to the board and this time Spencer joined him. There wasn't much point doing a deep trawl until the rest of the files arrived – and besides, you never knew what a discussion might throw up, so early in the case.

Rossi picked up the still of the 'HELP ME' graffiti their unsub had left at the Watson scene.

"'Help me' is in direct conflict with the psychology of a psychopath and it's something I have never seen before," he said, considering it.

Detective Henderson looked interested and a little lost, so Spencer added, "Psychopaths don't have the capacity to feel empathy towards others."

"They can mimic it," Rossi expanded. "But they can't feel it."

"Then he didn't mean it?" Henderson asked.

Rossi tilted his head. "Or, someone or something is showing him who he really is."

"Okay, friends," said Garcia, calling their attention to her. "The film in the video is analogue. It's been digitised, but it is seriously degraded."

"Meaning what?" JJ asked.

"Meaning this kind of degradation only happens over at least a decade and thousands of repeated viewings," their colourful technician clarified.

"This is the only way he can get any release," Rossi realised.

"Then you're right," said Detective Henderson darkly. "He's been doin' this for ten years."

"Uh… more like twenty," Garcia said and Spencer felt his eyebrows shoot upwards. "The woman in this video? She's wearing a sweater I haven't seen since _Flashdance_."

Henderson chuckled, despite herself.

Rossi pored over the victim's date planner. "On the day of her death, the twenty-first, Michelle entered the name 'Robert – 4pm'."

"Yeah, we found no one with that name connected to her at all," said Henderson. "So, we think it's an alias."

That made sense, but… Spencer frowned, taking a closer look. He flicked back and forth in the planner for a moment, checking the other weeks. "Michelle's highly organised. She's precise, light of hand – also left-handed."

"How can you tell?" Henderson asked.

"Uh, the hardest point is where she starts," he told her, pointing it out. "The lightest point is where she tails off. In her case, she tails off to the right…" He frowned again. "It's weird…"

"What?" said JJ.

"I'm not sure, but – the number twenty-nine," he said, pointing it out. "It's circled twice in red ink and it tails off towards the left. Whoever wrote that is right-handed."

Beside him, JJ picked up the remote and fast forwarded the looped recording. She hit play and they watched the unsub write 'HELP ME' again.

"The person writing that is right handed," she pointed out. "And he did it in red ink."

"The unsub wrote the circled twenty-nine!" Rossi exclaimed.

"Guys," said Garcia in a small voice, "tomorrow's the twenty-ninth."

0o0

The song stuck in Michelle Watson's head when she was murdered was 9 to 5, by Dolly Parton. It was going to be stuck in Grace's for the next week, too.

There wasn't much left of her but the song and even the morgue attendant and ME had been humming it under their breath, though they probably had no idea where the urge had come from.

One of the other 'residents' was lurking around the door, ghoulish and pale, looking very much like he might stick around indefinitely. He seemed alert and awake, and peculiarly fascinated with his surroundings. Grace ignored him.

"One stab wound, beginning just below the rib cage and just the right angle to penetrate the heart," said the M.E. "She woulda bled out in minutes."

"Yeah," Grace agreed. "He videotaped it."

The Medical Examiner pulled a face. "I should probably watch that later on, if the department lets me. Anything that gives us better insight into how something has been done to a person gives us a better shot at identifying it next time." She frowned. "Not that there's much ambiguity here."

"No hesitation?" Grace asked, peering at the thin slit on the woman's torso that had ended her life.

"None at all. If anything, it was business-like and clean, almost like a hit."

"Hmm," said Grace.

The earlier killings the Police Department had identified (and then Garcia had added to) had been anything but clean. They had had every mark of a violent sexual psychopath; a blitz attack, multiple stab wounds – not just multiple, even. So many that one M.E. had remarked that the flesh of one victim's torso more closely resembled lace than skin. The scenes had been bloody, evidence of frenzied and sustained attacks.

This was different.

So, assuming this was the same guy – and the victimology matched so closely that it was difficult to say that it wasn't – what had changed?

"Serial killers don't often change their spots," she mused aloud, and the M.E., who was used to officers coming in and talking to themselves, tolerantly waited until she was finished to cover up Michelle Watson's corpse and slide her back into the refrigerator.

"I don't think she can tell us much more," said Grace. "I'll recommend to Detective Henderson to give you the go ahead to release her back to the family."

"Thanks," said the M.E. "Least favourite part of my job, having them come in to identify their loved ones. Hopefully being able to put her to rest will give them a little closure. Help them start to heal."

Grace nodded.

_And catching the bastard who put her in here will go a long way, too. _

0o0

*It gave him the perfect poker face. Gordon Kaye – he was driving in the Burns Day storm in January 1990 and got a piece of billboard stuck in his head; the damage apparently affected his ability to perceive things that were funny, but he knew the pattern of comedy so his work wasn't effected. This is an urban myth, of course, but I remember my biology teacher telling us about it at A-Level. Probably Grace's did, too.


	6. Message in a Bottle

**Essential Listening: Black and White Town, by Doves**

"Hotch is in position, so let's walk through this," said Derek, as he led Emily to take up the stance they had seen Michelle Watson use on the video. "Prentiss, Michelle stood right here, facin' me."

"Okay," she said, getting into character. "Door's still open."

Crime scene run-throughs could be surprisingly helpful at times, even if it felt like a pantomime the first few times you did it.

"She didn't shut it," Derek observed. "And now she turns her back to it."

Prentiss raised her eyebrows, following suit. "That was her first mistake. Okay, she's on the phone with her husband. 3.55 p.m., she tells him she has another client coming."

She stood in the window, her back to the door, miming talking on the phone. Even though Derek knew this was make believe (and that Emily was one of the toughest people he knew), she looked entirely vulnerable.

"Now here comes the unsub," said Derek, nodding at Hotch, who walked up the steps. "But you don't turn around. You keep talking. And now the unsub's in the house."

"I hear him," said Prentiss, as the door closed.

"You hear him, but you don't turn around, not yet." He waited until the victim on the video turned around. "Now you turn." The three agents paused their reconstruction and looked at one another. "Okay, so she leaves the front door open and she turns her back," said Derek. "She must have been expecting Robert."

"It's an open house," Hotch agreed. "There's no one else here. He knew she'd be alone."

"She's standin' face-to-face with the unsub, talkin' to 'im," said Derek, watching the video progress. "And yet she still turns away."

"Second mistake," said Prentiss, following suit.

"He poses no threat," Hotch surmised.

Prentiss nodded. "Yeah, and if she'd seen a camera, she would have registered it."

"Now she turns, faces the unsub – he strikes, right into her chest," Derek narrated. "And then he drags her over here."

They walked the few steps Michelle had taken to the couch.

"And he films her death."

"He chose a controlled environment, in which he could ensure privacy, no witnesses and, most importantly –" Hotch paused as his cell phone rang. "He didn't have to dump the body. Garcia?"

Derek frowned, inspiration hitting him. "Prentiss, the point of view – she didn't see the camera because the glasses have to _be_ the camera. It's too high up for something hand held."

"Thanks Garcia," said Hotch and hung up. "He left us another message," he told them. "He circled the number twenty-nine in Michelle's date planner."

Prentiss winced, probably thinking the same thing as Derek: _today is the twenty-eighth._ "So, we've only got twenty-four hours to stop him."

0o0

"Anything useful?" Rossi asked, before Grace had even taken her jacket off.

She looked around, eyes narrowing; there was more urgency in this room than there had been before she'd left it.

"Not really," she said. "No overkill – just one stab wound, exactly where it needed to be to kill someone swiftly. The Medical Examiner said it reminded her of contract killings. Clean, and to the point."

"Which doesn't entirely match the profile of a sexual psychopath," Reid observed, biting his lip.

"Yes and no," said Rossi. "If we're working with the theory that he really is reaching out to law enforcement, something must have changed him – that could be reflected in the diminishing violence of his kills, also."

"What did I miss?" Grace asked, sidling up to Reid. "You guys are all tense and there's officers out there not-quite-running. Spill."

"We're pretty sure he wrote this in Michelle Watson's date planner," said Reid, showing her a blown up photo of the number twenty-nine in a double circle."

"Significance?"

"Well, Garcia pointed out that tomorrow is the twenty-ninth, so, uh…"

Grace made a noise of understanding. "So… we're thinking he's telling us that whatever he wants us to help stop, it's happening tomorrow?"

He nodded, long brown hair falling across his face. "Pretty much."

"Great. Well, nothing like a looming deadline to galvanise folks, I guess."

Reid chuckled, but it was half-hearted and he was already turning back to the street names he was highlighting on the map of Buffalo – the streets they had been able to identify from the video.

This was one of those you had to hit from every possible angle until you struck gold.

And now there might be another death, very soon.

She looked up from Reid's map as JJ hurried in. "Morgan thinks the unsub's glasses _are_ the camera," she relayed. To Henderson, she said, "You need to get the sketch of the unsub out to every camera shop in Buffalo."

"If he operates within a comfort zone then whichever of these camera shops he visits the most, that's the one he'll live closest to," Rossi reminded them.

"Alright, you heard them, man," said Henderson, to her uniformed shadow. He took up the sketch to make more copies and silently headed out.

Grace wondered whether he ever spoke.

"Uh, Hotch also wants us to focus on victims found in controlled locations," JJ told them, so Grace and Reid started flipping through the files on the other victims who fit this guy's victimology and rooting out the ones who had fallen prey to circumstance.

"Secure areas with little chance of witnesses – and ones where he left the bodies where he killed them," Rossi summarised, as they worked.

"Okay, based on that," said Reid, pulling out a photograph and pinning it to the board. "June '98, Lily Flynn. Found in her apartment. Stabbed twenty-three times."

"Hillary Habner, March 2000," Rossi added, passing him another photo. "Found in her basement, stabbed eighteen times."

"Cindy Stangnale," said Henderson, offering up another victim. "April 2001, stabbed multiple times, found in her office."

"Tara Becker, May 1997, found in her kitchen," said Grace, passing up her own picture. "Stabbed twenty-seven times."

"And May 1999, Vanessa Bright. Twenty-nine. Stabbed and found in her studio," JJ added.

"Ladies and gentlemen," said Spencer, sticking the last of the five women to the board. "It appears as though we've found our timeline. Looks like our killer strikes almost exactly every twelve months."

"Except last year," Grace pointed out. "Unless we just didn't find her."

"My God." Henderson sighed, confronted with the monster she hadn't known her city had been afflicted with. "All these women. And he got away with it."

"I think we need to inform the media," said JJ, looking at their pictures. "Buffalo has a serial killer.

0o0

Emily was following Hotch, who was following Morgan, who was following the unsub (via his own video) up the street towards the open house where Michelle Watson had been murdered. They'd gleaned a lot from the reconstruction, so they had decided to follow the video even further back, to see what they could get out of that, too.

"Every so often, he's stoppin' and lookin' down at the ground," Morgan observed, frowning at the pavement.

"At what?" There didn't seem to be anything to look at, as far as Emily could see. Just paving slabs.

"I don't know," said Morgan, looking around. "But it's clear he's tryin' to step around some type of object," he added, trying to match his movements to the ones in the film.

Emily raised an eyebrow. "There aren't any objects."

"Well, at least not that we can see," said Hotch. "But remember in the film – he cut the sandwich and turned it twice."

"And the twenty-nine was circled twice in red," Emily added, suddenly grasping what they hadn't seen. "So, this isn't a message, this is something he has to do."

Morgan stopped and looked around, realisation coming across his face. "It's the cracks in the pavement," he said. "That's why he's stopping. He's stepping over them because he has to."

"He's likely obsessive-compulsive," Emily defined. "Meaning, no matter how hard he tries, he simply can't stop himself."

"Well, if he wanted to, he could have turned himself in," Hotch reminded them. "But he can't."

Emily nodded. "By writing 'Help me', he really means 'stop me'."

0o0

Grace walked out of the department and followed the path around the side of the East Buffalo Police Department into the car park. It was late; the team had spent the day putting together the profile, pulling their newly identified victim's files apart and helping JJ gather everything she and Detective Henderson needed for the press conference.

Although it was May and the days were warm, it was still pretty cold in Buffalo at night; there was no major landmass in the way of the Atlantic Ocean. It was the kind of spring-cold that Grace remembered from nights patrolling in London and she turned up her collar against it, almost running on automatic. Henderson had told her that two years earlier it had snowed all the way up to the end of April. At least it wasn't drizzling.

She stepped off the ramp at the bottom of the path and into the space between two police vans. The acid orange of the streetlights was dimmer here. Budget cuts, Henderson had said sourly, over takeout.

One or two of them were flickering, giving the car park something of a nightmarish quality. Grace ignored it, nightmarish qualities being a thing she had long been accustomed to. Fleetingly, she thought of the grim belfry of St James Garlickhythe and the strange, largely unhelpful warnings of its ghastly inhabitant*.

Shuddering, she turned into the car park proper.

All the others had headed home about an hour earlier, but Grace had stayed on, aware that she wasn't likely to sleep too well, anyway. Although her wrist had largely healed, there were large parts of her time in Georgia that she still carried with her, and would likely still be carrying for many years to come. Really, not sleeping was a fairly minor scar, compared to some she'd seen in her colleagues over the years, on both sides of the proverbial Pond.

She had almost reached the departmental SUV when she was slammed bodily into it, knocking all the breath from her. Strong arms closed about her – one about her waist, the other at her throat – and someone dragged her backwards.

Half-choking, Grace scrabbled wildly at her assailant's arms, then for her gun – but it was no longer in her belt.

She saw the edge of something metallic glinting under the SUV. It must have been knocked clean out of its holster in that first, powerful collision.

_But that's not possible!_ she thought fleetingly, vision blurring as the arm about her throat tightened considerably.

There was no time to worry about that now, nor about who was trying to kill her. Ceasing to think of anything other than escape, she twisted rapidly to one side and drove her elbow deep into the stomach of her attacker. It was inelegant and desperate, but it had the desired effect – he let go and Grace fell to the floor. She staggered away.

_Got to get to my gun,_ she thought blearily, but she was too slow.

She felt the kick connect to the back of her knees with painful accuracy and she crashed to the floor, yelling as her weight fell on her injured wrist and it made a horrible sort of crunching noise.

The gun was only two feet away. If she could just reach it –

Her assailant grabbed her shoulder hard enough to leave bruises and flipped her so she was flat on her back, staring up into a dark, hooded face. Grace could barely make out any features – was he wearing spectacles?

She tried to move, but somehow she couldn't; she was helpless, frozen in place, unable even to scream as the man extracted a long, cruel knife from his coat. He advanced a step, his face catching the orange light of a street lamp. It was the face from the sketch JJ had given to the press only a few hours earlier.

_But that's not right_, a part of her brain not currently occupied with shaking in terror observed. _This isn't a controlled scene – what is he playing at?_

He took another step forward and the man's features warped and twisted, so violently Grace thought she might be sick. Then it was Noah Dodds' unfriendly countenance standing over her, and the knife wasn't a knife at all, but a shotgun. Why wasn't her magic working? Her mind felt sluggish and unresponsive.

Somewhere nearby, Harriet Dodds shouted encouragement for her brother. "I'm a good girl!" she cried. "And she's the devil! _Kill her!_"

He aimed the shotgun at her head.

Grace flung up her arms defensively and shot upright, her heart hammering hard against the inside of her ribcage, sweat pouring down her face and pooling in the dip at her throat. Taking several large gulps of air, she held her head in her uninjured hand until she felt marginally more stable, then groped for the light switch.

There were lumps of something shiny strewn all across the hotel room, and a stripe of water along the wall, where the tumbler that had been on the bedside table had exploded.

With a sigh, she untangled her legs from where they had tangled in the sweat-damp sheets, and summoned all the shards together with a whirl of her hand. Another wave deposited them in the waste paper basket. There were one or two sore, pink marks on her arms from where they must have hit her. Fortunately, none of them had been particularly sharp. It had been a long time since her magic had got away from her like that while she was sleeping.

She was still getting her breathing under control when someone knocked on her door.

Grace squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. The last thing she needed right now was company – or worse, another emergency.

Hoping that it wasn't going to be Hotch, waiting to inform her that someone had been murdered in the East Buffalo Police Department car park, she made herself get up and answer the door.

But it wasn't Hotch.

"Hey," said Spencer, keeping his voice low because it was ungodly o'clock in the morning. "You okay? I – uh – thought I heard you yelling, and then something smashed."

_Bugger_.

"I… woke up fast and smashed a glass," she told him, which wasn't technically untrue, but he wasn't a fool – and he was a profiler.

He narrowed sleepy eyes at her. "Nightmare?"

Grace studied the wood grain of the door she was holding open. She nodded at it, as if it had asked the question instead of him. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him bite his lip, glance along the corridor and pause. When he looked back, he'd made up his mind. She had seen him do it a thousand times, usually just before he suggested something that sounded inadvisable.

"You want me to sleep on the couch?" he asked, nodding past her.

_No_, she thought at once. _No, you get back off to sleep. I'm okay. I'm fine. I'm coping._

But somehow, she couldn't make the words come out of her mouth. Aware that she was standing there with said mouth hanging open, she shut it and swallowed, wanting to be able to turn him down with half of every fibre of her being. The other half, however, had other ideas – and appeared to have gained control of her vocal chords.

"Could you?" she said, tiredly. "Otherwise I won't sleep."

A slight smile; a nod. "I'll – uh – go grab my duvet and cell phone."

She left the door open, feeling shaky and horribly relieved. She couldn't bring herself to close it again, even for the couple of minutes it would take him to go back next door and fetch his stuff.

Even though, logically, she knew that the rest of the team completely understood what it was like to go through trauma, to feel helpless and foolish because you can't do something as simple as sleep without someone else there, it still felt like a failure to have to ask for help. It didn't matter that she needed it, or that she knew perfectly well that she wasn't weak or failing at all. It didn't even matter that she had taken shifts sleeping on various other of her team members' sofas when they had gone through similar things.

It still made her feel awful.

Spencer returned quickly, which was a balm for her sanity, and closed and locked the door behind him.

He paused in the act of throwing his duvet at the sofa.

"Um, it's okay, you know," he told her. "I don't mind."

Grace nodded again – and even managed half a smile – but she couldn't bring herself to look up at him, or make a move towards the bed. She heard Spencer put down his phone and key card before he crossed the room in two steps.

The hug took her a little by surprise, but not in a bad way. She couldn't quite make herself hug him back, but the brief, human shaped warmth and the way he gave her shoulders a squeeze went a long way to making her feel more herself again. He seemed to understand, however, and when she rested her chin against his shoulder and managed to force the words 'thank you' out from between her lips, he gave her a sad but encouraging smile and backed off again.

Belatedly realising that having gone to bed in just her vest and her underwear, she wasn't what you might describe as 'dressed', she crawled back into bed with the tips of her ears turning pink.

She waited for him to settle before turning out the light, then stared at the ceiling in the darkness for a time, listening to his breathing across the room.

_Our lives appear to be defined by a series of silent conversations in hotel rooms,_ she thought, after a while. Then: _Gods, I'm glad you're here._

Finally, in the final moment before sleep took her, she rolled onto her side and pulled a bunched up pillow tight to her stomach, thinking, _I hope you still are when I wake up._

0o0

The body was dumped on the edge of a section of disused railway beneath a bridge, wrapped loosely in a dark grey blanket. The victim was a black woman in her mid-to-late twenties, dressed in bright, lively colours.

Everything about the scene screamed 'different', but you couldn't ignore a woman being stabbed to death in the middle of an investigation into a man who stabbed women, even if the scene and victimology was way off.

_Particularly_, Aaron thought,_ since this guy seemed capable of or compelled to change._

The MO, however, was the same. And this new victim's eyes – like Michelle's – had been left wide open.

"Well, there's no purse or jewellery this time," Morgan remarked, studying the body. "Nothin' to ID her with."

"Whereas, with Michelle, he didn't care what he left behind," said Rossi, standing on the other side of the corpse. "He knew we couldn't connect her to him."

"Why did he cover her up and fold her arms across her chest?" Aaron asked.

Again, another difference. It almost looked like their unsub cared about this woman. Almost.

"She can't be more than twenty-four," Detective Henderson observed. "That doesn't fit his victimology."

"Well, the chest wound matches that of Michelle Watson," said Morgan, getting to his feet.

_Too closely for us to ignore this one, _Aaron thought.

"The way he's positioned her, the blanket – shows remorse. He probably knew her more intimately than the others," he said aloud.

"That's somewhat of a leap," Henderson remarked.

"Not when you consider this is the first time that he dumped a body," Rossi argued.

Henderson sighed, gazing down at the young woman's remains. "Someone will be missin' her soon."

"Today's the twenty-ninth," said Aaron, taking a report another detective was proffering. "He probably killed her last night. Whatever his plans are, he still has them."

He skimmed through the page and passed it to Dave, whose frown deepened somewhat.

"We're ready to give the profile."

They stood back to let the coroner through and allowed Detective Henderson to lead them to the far end of the tracks, to what looked like a disused station. Here, she gathered the officers and detectives she had at the scene. They would need to start canvassing immediately if they wanted to intercept this guy before he got to do whatever it was he was planning.

"We've confirmed eleven kills over a ten year period," said Rossi, as the members of the Buffalo Police Department grew quiet, ready to hear what they needed to catch this guy. "This makes twelve. All but one are blonde, white females in their mid-to-late thirties."

"This unsub has extreme obsessive-compulsive disorder," Aaron continued. "This woman doesn't fit his victimology. He probably didn't target, or even mean to kill her."

"Of the five camera shops in Buffalo that were shown this sketch," said Henderson, holding it up so they could see, "only one owner, of _Tarquinios Camera Shop_, on Union Road, recognised him. The owner knows him only as 'Vincent'."

"He bought two three-millimetre wireless cameras and had them retro-fitted to his glasses," Morgan explained.

"He's well-versed in camera technology," Aaron said. "He probably generates income from a related field."

"So, stake out the shop and keep a low profile," Morgan advised.

Aaron nodded. "He walks in off the street, politely waits his turn, pays in cash." He held up the image Garcia had pulled from the shop's CCTV and sent out with the report the other detective had brought. "This is him. Black overcoat, black baseball cap. You'll get more from your sketch."

Morgan gestured behind him, to where the young woman's body was being carefully lifted onto a stretcher. "Now, this last kill shows the most remorse," he said. "But it also means we know this guy's mobile – most likely in an SUV. Low-profile, muted colour."

"He's beginning to devolve," Aaron warned them. "His OCD will get worse and he'll have a hard time hiding it. He will take bigger and bigger risks to achieve his ultimate goal."

_Including, possibly attacking you,_ Aaron added mentally, trusting the officers to read into the subtext on this one.

"In Michelle Watson's date planner he circled the number twenty-nine," said Morgan. "Today is the twenty-ninth. So, we believe he may have something planned for today."

"He sent us this film as his way of reaching out," Aaron told them. "He may be ambivalent, but his OCD won't let him stop."

"If he sees a heavy police presence and he's not done," Morgan said, "he'll run."

"The East Side is his comfort zone," said Rossi. "This is where he lives."

Morgan took up the thread again. "However random, anything out of the ordinary, please let us know."

"Thank you very much," said Aaron, and they began to disperse.

"Tell me again what the autopsy reports said," Aaron requested, as they regrouped a little way away from the others.

"He seems to be killing once a year – except last year," said Dave. "And they were all, except Michelle Watson, overkill. He stabbed her only once."

"And hers was the only one he sent footage of to the police," Morgan added. "That's a definitive change."

"Alright," said Aaron, making a decision. "Call Reid, Pearce and Prentiss. Tell them to go over the autopsy reports again. We need to figure out why."

0o0

*See the short story, _'Wren's Lantern'_ in the upcoming fourth anthology (_This Way Up, _which will be available from Amazon and Smashwords and the like) by the Superstars, and bear with the fact I've changed Grace's name to Alex because eventually she's going to have her own series of books.


	7. Snow Blind

**Essential Listening: Fade In-Out, by Oasis**

0o0

By mid-morning, the half of the team that wasn't out corpse spotting was elbow deep in the case files of the eleven victims they had identified as belonging to this unsub.

Really, thought Penelope, who was getting an up-close look at how the team functioned in the field (remarkably well, considering the lack of sleep and various levels of intense external stress), if Buffalo had digitised their records earlier they might have spotted this. But they didn't have much in the way of funding, from what she could tell, and all the officers she had encountered (though a little perplexed at her manner of dress) had seemed hardworking and earnest, which was better than some places.

Anyone who could had dropped everything to help out on this case as soon as it had become clear that this guy wasn't going to stop any time soon, and that was another mark in their favour.

Penelope had half a mind to start handing out brownie points, but she wasn't sure this would go over terribly well. She had spent her morning picking apart the film within the film and she was ninety percent sure now that it was footage of another murder – and that it was too old to have been their unsub, based on the sketch and the age range her crim-chasing babies were suggesting for the profile.

It was difficult to tell, because generally when she saw them working it was through a screen, but she thought Grace looked particularly worn out this morning – though she was covering it well enough to fool the locals, who didn't know her as well as the team. Penelope was pretty sure the others had noticed, too, since twice already Reid had come back from the kitchenette with a cup of tea as well as a coffee and both JJ and Emily were pointedly ignoring her yawns.

She felt a little swell of warmth for her weird, stressed, overstretched family of semi-broken heroes, patted Grace's shoulder and took up a position by the board with the others, hoping some of the elucidation they appeared to be gleaning from it rubbed off on her. Or at least that the feeling would return in her butt so she could get back to work. The chairs in the East Buffalo Police Department were less than forgiving.

"He sure does like his blondes," she reflected, looking at them all. "Not a good date, though. Too stabby."

Grace chuckled, which made Penelope feel better.

"Less so, though, with Michelle Watson and the woman we found this morning," Emily remarked, as though what Penelope had said wasn't weird at all.

"Every one of these murders happened during the months of spring," JJ noted.

"So, spring for the unsub, is a stressor," Emily inferred.

"Could be a traumatic event or the birthday of a dead loved one," Grace put in, getting up to join them.

Penelope gasped, "Hey! Do you think my video was done in the spring?"

"That could be our original stressor," Grace nodded.

"There's a good chance," said Emily.

"Okay," Penelope said, taking off her shoes and heading for the uncomfortable chair. She meant business, now. "Eighties, spring, Buffalo. Search for homicides, see if I can make a connection."

She gave Grace a mock salute and she saluted back, to Penelope's delight.

"All of the victims – except for Michelle Watson –" Reid began, and Grace interrupted, as if she'd guessed where this was heading.

"And today's victim."

"– were killed within a year of each other," he finished, because those two apparently living in one another's brains was what passed for totally normal around here.

"Victim number ten, Joyce Wilcott, was stabbed thirty-two times," Emily pointed out.

"And then Michelle Watson was only stabbed the once, two years later," Reid agreed.

"What's missing from the Michelle Watson murder is any sign of rage or overkill," said Emily.

"And instead, on the tape we see signs of remorse." Reid nodded. "A complete and sudden emotional change. It's absolutely fascinating."

The other profilers in the room nodded, but Penelope pulled a face. "I love you Reid, but the stuff you find fascinating is sad."

JJ chuckled and even Emily hid a smile as the young genius looked perplexed.

"Ain't that the truth?" Grace rubbed her nose. "So, the question is, what happened between Joyce Wilcott and Michelle Watson that changed the unsub's outlook?"

"Okay," said Penelope, picking up a new photograph from the printer to show to them. "The woman on my video. She looks a lot like the ones on the board, don't you think?"

"So, he's killing her over and over again," Emily surmised.

"Maybe?" said Penelope, who didn't know and actively would prefer to keep it that way. "I don't know. Not my job."

"Guys, there was an actual witness in the Joyce Willcott murder," said Reid, who had been reading through the file.

"A witness?" JJ echoed, surprised.

"A boy…" he said slowly. "Her son."

"How old?" Grace asked, as Penelope raced back to her computer to bring up the news reports.

"Nine," said Reid, and the other three agents made noises of sadness and compassion – except Grace, who muttered, "Bastard," under her breath.

"Okay, I got it," said Penelope. "Says here, neighbours called police when they heard her son, Stan, screaming for his mother." She sighed.

"They were found in the backyard," said Reid, still with his nose in the file. "She was dead."

"So, he saw the whole thing?" Emily asked.

"Poor kid," said Grace.

"If he did, why didn't the unsub kill the only living witness?" he wondered aloud.

"Did they interview him?" Emily asked.

"He was traumatised," JJ explained.

Grace nodded. "Who wouldn't be?"

"Did he see the killer?" Emily asked.

"He didn't _see_ anything," said Reid, in what Penelope considered to be an overly cryptic manner. He showed the file to JJ, Emily and Grace, and Penelope could tell from their expressions that something weird was afoot.

Without any explanation, Emily turned to her. "Where is the boy now?"

Penelope worked her magic, watching the documents appear and slot into place. "Single mom, father dead in a car accident… he was foster homed after her death."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Tell me he's still in Buffalo?"

Penelope frowned, bringing up his home address. "He is."

"Good," said Emily, and then went to call the others.

Penelope poked JJ in the thigh with an excessively fluffy pen. "Why didn't Stanley see anything?"

The other woman's face creased into a mask of sympathy. "Because he's blind."

0o0

The kid was reading on the front step when they pulled up out front; Dave saw him pause when he registered the sound of the SUV and again when he heard their footsteps approaching. It was just the barest gap in the way his fingers danced over the Braille, but it was there.

Chances were, this kid had witnessed more than probably anyone else knew the night his mother had been murdered. Maybe being able to help catch her killer would bring him some closure.

"How you doin' there, kid?" Morgan asked, as they stopped in front of the boy. "We're lookin' for Stanley Wilcott."

"Who wants to know?" Stanley asked, with just the right amount of sass.

Dave like him immediately.

"My name's Derek Morgan," said the younger agent, taking off his sunglasses. "I'm with the FBI."

Stanley raised an eyebrow in surprise. "FBI? Cool."

"Today's your birthday, right?" Morgan asked, and Stanley beamed.

Behind him, the door opened and a woman in her thirties emerged. "Can I help you?" she asked.

"FBI," said Dave, pulling out his badge for her to see. "I'm sorry to have to do this, today of all days, but… we need to talk to Stanley. It's urgent."

"Sounds serious," said Stanley, and there was still more than half a joke in his voice.

"I'm afraid it is," Morgan told him.

"You don't have to talk to them if you don't want to," said his foster mother – not unkindly.

She probably appreciated exactly why they needed to talk to him, but Stanley was still only a kid – and a kid who had lost so much.

"It's okay. I want to help them. They're real FBI agents!"

His foster mother gave both agents a long, searching look before agreeing. "Alright. But go inside and put your book away while I talk to these gentlemen first."

"Okay."

She led them into a cosy living room while Stanley took himself off to his room, moving with a quickness and confidence that surprised Dave. There were a large number of packing cases and moving boxes in the other half of the room. He guessed she and Stanley would soon be on the move.

"Now, let me see those badges again," she said.

Dave showed her, amused. He liked her, too. Something told her Stanley was going to have a great life, if this woman had any say in the matter.

"Agent David Rossi," he said, shaking her hand.

"SSA Derek Morgan," Morgan added, flashing his own badge.

"Kate Charlotte. I'm not an agent, or an SA anything, but I do care what happens to Stanley – and it _is_ his birthday." She folded her arms.

"I know, ma'am," said Morgan apologetically. "We wouldn't be here if it could wait."

"Alright," she said again, making up her mind. "What do you need to know?"

"How long has Stanley been with you?" Dave asked.

"Stanley's been with me for nine months, now," Kate told them. "The adoption papers came through last week, so we're moving to California."

The three adults watched the boy for a moment. He was presently putting another box of things on the stack, making a clicking noise with his tongue as he moved, and generally managing the task about as well as a person with perfect vision would.

"Stanley's been blind since birth," Kate explained. "His mom didn't want him to use a cane, so he – uh…"

Stanley gave a couple of louder clicks and grinned. "My way through life!" he declared, and both men smiled.

"It's called echo location," Kate said, with a chuckle. "It's where the sound bounces off objects. Kinda like how a bat uses sonar."

"I'm the Batman," said Stanley cheerfully.

Morgan, still smiling, went and knelt in front of him. "Well, hey, Batman. There's somethin' me and my colleague here, Dave, need to ask you some questions about."

To Morgan's evident surprise, Stanley gave a series of clicks, then reached out to feel the man's face. Stanley's expression immediately became more serious.

"This is about my mom, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yeah, it is."

"And I need to ask –"

"Have you found him?" Stanley interrupted. In the pause that Morgan left, he added, "I can feel a lie."

"We're lookin' for 'im Stan," said Morgan gently. "We could use your help. Now, what I'm askin' you to do probably won't be easy."

Stanley took a deep breath. "Will it help you catch him?"

"It might."

"I'm not sure about this," said Kate, which Dave thought was fair enough, all things considered. He was about to agree when Stanley took the matter out of his hands.

"It's okay," said the boy. "I wanna."

Morgan, who looked similarly uncomfortable about having to do a cognitive recall exercise with a kid (it was always harder putting them through it when they were so young), patted him on the chest. "Attaboy," he said gently, as Kate threw Dave a worried glance and sat down on the couch to observe. "Okay," he said, "two years ago, on that night, you were playin' in the snow with your mom."

"She said my lips were turning blue," said Stanley at once. "She told me to go in and get warm. She said it was getting dark."

"So, then you came inside, you took off your gloves, you took off your jacket and you got warm," Morgan described, keeping his voice low and soft, so as not to disturb the memories Stanley was being led through. "But after a while, she didn't come back in."

Dave chewed the inside of his mouth. Somehow, this whole thing was reminding of the hypnosis session he had sat through with Reid in Vegas. Even though he had seen a thousand cognitive recalls before this one, Stanley's was bothering him more than most. He had the same, vulnerable but defiant expression on his face that Reid had, that day.

"Mom? Mom?" the kid called.

"Stanley, what do you hear?" Morgan asked.

The boy shook his head. "The snow's so thick, it covers the house – the yard. Everything's so quiet."

Morgan nodded, glancing at Kate and Dave. "You call out for her, but she doesn't call back."

"Mom?" he called again, louder this time. "N-now I hear something."

"What do you hear?"

"I – I think I can hear my mom."

Dave looked away for a moment. It was horribly easy to imagine the sounds the poor woman had been making as she lay dying in the snow.

"Is she talking?" Morgan asked quietly.

Stanley shook his head. "Crying."

"Now what do you do?"

"Go outside."

"Stanley, we can stop doing this now, if you want," said Morgan, as the boy's expression became more pinched with apprehension.

"No," he said, with a certainty that was difficult to argue with. "It's okay. I – I can do this."

_He needs to do this_, Dave thought.

"You're doin' good, Stanley," Morgan encouraged, keeping him anchored to the present. "You're doin' really good. I'm right here, alright?"

Stanley didn't answer, using his clicks to navigate the world of his remembrance. "Mom?" he asked again, clicking some more.

"Can you hear her?" Morgan prompted.

"No. I need to find her," he said, distress evident in his young voice. "Mom?"

All at once, he straightened up, as if startled.

"Stanley?" Morgan asked.

"S-s-someone's here," he whispered. "I – I can feel them. It's not my mom."

"That's enough," said Kate, breaking the spell.

Dave nodded. They had what they needed – there wasn't much else that Stanley could tell them, except that the unsub – Vincent – had seen him. Maybe seeing Stanley and knowing that he was blind had forced him to re-examine the way he saw himself. The unsub's videos suggested he was an instinctively visual person; Stanley's lack of vision might well have given him pause.

She rushed to comfort her adopted son.

"He saw me, didn't he?" Stanley asked, sounding calmer than he probably was.

Morgan put a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, Stan. He did."

_He saw you,_ thought Dave, _and something in him told him to choose not to kill you._

0o0

It was an odd call, as they went. Not your usual mid-case summons, but still. There was a corpse and it seemed like the man who had previously inhabited it had come into contact with their unsub.

A gangland murder was not the scene Grace had been expecting to meander through this afternoon, but this case was all kinds of unusual.

Uniform had called it in, under their policy of following Morgan's instruction of 'anything weird happens, we need to know'.

The current 'something weird' was a dead gang member and an extremely nervous live one, who had been freaked out enough to immediately call both an ambulance and the police, even though he'd had active warrants out for possession. His friend had been dead before the ambulance arrived, but the guy had stuck around, which was unexpectedly big of him.

It was, as Grace's old Guv'nor would have said, 'worth a look'.

"He just came outta nowhere!" he was telling Grace, Hotch and Detective Henderson, as the others pulled up in an SUV. "He rolled up on us."

Grace glanced behind her, at the shade of the rather bewildered young man hovering behind her. This was not entirely the story he was telling, but it was an interesting start, at least.

"Which way was he walkin'?" Detective Henderson asked.

He stuck his chin out to the right. "That way."

Henderson nodded. "He's headin' east."

"So, your friend shot him, the man defended himself, you did nothing?" Hotch asked. "You ran away and called 911?"

Behind Grace, the man's recently dead friend said. "Yeah, man – what he supposed to do? Get stabbed? Come on. He's my boy, not my mother. Oh, fuck me! Naw, man! That ain't right."

These last remarks were directed at Rossi, who had inadvertently walked right through him as he and Morgan joined them.

"I'm done talkin', Fed," said his friend, who was still at the shaky side of freaked out and was pretty much running on automatic at this point. "I ain't sayin' nothin'. I want my lawyer."

Hotch narrowed his eyes. "You'll get a lawyer. Answer my questions."

The kid sighed. "He shot him once."

"Where?"

"In the stomach."

"What was he doin' when you rolled up on him?" Morgan asked.

"Head down… walkin' real fast, like he was late for somethin'," said the young man.

"So, you jumped him?" Rossi asked.

The man contrived to look a little sheepish. Sullenly, in a voice only Grace could hear, his friend said, "It's my street, Fed. I gotta earn a livin'."

"When he didn't give you what you wanted, what did he do?" Grace asked, trying not to glance in his direction.

"He shot me, dumb bitch. What you think he did?"

Grace ignored him and focused, for the moment, on the living.

"At first, nothin'," said the accomplice. "He just started makin' this noise with his tongue."

"What kind of noise?" Hotch asked.

The ghost behind Grace made a sort of clicking noise.

"Hey man, listen to me," said Morgan, whose frown had deepened. He made a click sound with his tongue. "Like that?"

"Yeah, like that," said the young man, spooked. "Exactly like that. Then he slammed Jay with the knife and turned and came after me."

Both Hotch and Grace turned quizzical looks on Morgan.

"It's called echolocation," he explained.

"The unsub's tenth victim," Rossi told them, "she left behind a blind son who uses echolocation to get around."

"How would the killer know that?" Henderson asked.

"Because he saw him the night he killed his mother," said Morgan.

Grace tutted. "Christ."

"I think that's why he couldn't kill the boy," said Rossi, who paused. "Oh, wait a second. Today's that kid's birthday. That's the event."

Grace felt her stomach drop.

"Henderson, get units to meet us at 1635 Cantwell Drive right away," Morgan instructed, and everyone but Grace started to move.

Hotch shot her a glance and she simply lifted her immobilised wrist. "I'll get a ride back to the station," she said. "Go."

It felt all kinds of wrong not to be rushing off with them, but there wasn't anything she could do about it. The SUVs screamed out of the alleyway, closely followed by two of the four cop cars, leaving a handful of detectives, two uniformed officers, the forensics team, one federal agent and a bewildered gangbanger behind.

"What the hell is goin' on?" he asked.

Grace paused, considering. But then he'd be in lock-up all night, and seeing his friend die in front of him might be the push he needed to straighten out. "You see the press conference last night?"

"The one about the guy murderin' blonde, white chicks?"

"That's the one," said Grace, tolerantly. The news of the twelfth victim hadn't hit the news, properly yet. They were still waiting on an identification.

Faced with a blonde, white chick staring him down, the kid managed to look uncomfortable. "I heard it on the TV, but I was…" He stopped and Grace filled in 'doing something illegal I don't want to tell you about'.

"Uh-huh, well, if you'd looked up from whatever you were doing, you would have seen a sketch of the man who murdered your friend."

He shook his head, wide-eyed.

Grace decided some kindness was in order. "Listen, I get that this is – for you – an extremely bad day, but think of it this way: if you hadn't called the cops or talked to us just now, we would have had no idea that this guy is going after a ten year old kid."

Shocked, he nodded. Then looked pained. "I got a cousin that age," he said. "What if your boys don't get there in time?"

"That's the job," she told him, sadly. "But there's always hope."

"Will you let me know if the kid's a'ight?" he asked.

"Yes." She nodded to the uniformed officer to help him into the car.

Behind her, the ghost of Jay was shaking his head, angry at himself. "Damn. I wish someone'd tell my pops I'm sorry."

"Hey, kid," said Grace, without glancing in his direction. "You know Jay's pop?"

He looked up and nodded; behind her, his dead friend gasped.

"Tell him Jay's sorry."

He looked at her for a moment, before nodding sadly. "A'ight."

She turned and met his friend's startled, transparent gaze.

"Damn, lady," he exclaimed. "And I thought _I_ got problems."

0o0

Kate and Stanley lived on the other side of the city, and by the time they got there – even driving with considerably urgency, lights and sirens blaring, it was growing dark by the time they pulled up.

Rossi had called ahead, warning Kate to check on her adoptive son. She had dropped the phone in her haste, so they weren't sure what had happened. Derek didn't think it would be good news, however. This guy had a lot of hours on them.

She came running out of the house as soon as they got out of the car, looking terrified. "He's gone! He's gone! I thought he was in his room! He said he was tired!" Her voice rose with every syllable.

"When was the last time you saw him?" Rossi asked.

"About twenty minutes ago! I just don't understand! He would have had to pass me to get out!"

"Kate, think," said Derek, willing her to be calm. "When you checked on Stan, he was asleep, yes?"

"He was under the covers," she said, with a nod, evidently trying to stay away from the panic she was tipping into.

"You closed his door, you went to your room," said Rossi, walking her through it. "You settled down."

She took a gulp of air. "I watched TV."

"Did you hear, anything?" Derek asked, forcing her to relive it. They needed any detail they could get.

"I – uh – I heard a car horn beep twice. I looked out the window, though – I didn't see anything."

Derek was already looking around, but there were no cars on the street with anyone in them, as far as he could tell. Several of the neighbours' houses had lights on. He cast a glance back to Detective Henderson and she started marshalling her people to canvass the street. He looked at Rossi.

"He's got twenty minutes on us," he said, adding mentally, _We gotta be fast._

He jogged up into the house. Stanley must have climbed out of the window.

"Oh my God," Kate cried, behind him. "He's gonna kill him, isn't he!"

"Let's just take a look inside," said Rossi, calmly guiding her inside.

Derek hurried into Stanley's room. The kid had bunched the pillows up under the covers – that classic childhood ruse – and it looked like he'd climbed out of the window, which was still open. But he'd had help.

"There's blood here," he remarked.

"Oh, God," Kate wailed, fearing the worst.

"It's not Stan's," Rossi said immediately. "We believe the man who took Stan was injured. It's his blood."

She closed her eyes, relieved, but not quite enough.

"We think his name is Vincent," said Morgan and the woman froze.

"Vincent?" she repeated, shocked.

"You know him?" Rossi asked, stunned.

"Stan knew him before he came to me," she said, in a small, horrified voice.

"For how long?" Derek asked.

"Over a year," she told them. "He was a registered helper in a mentoring programme."

"Which one?" Rossi asked.

Kate put her head in her hands. "God, Stan's belonged to so many programmes, I – I can't remember where he met Vincent!"

Derek pulled out his cell. "Garcia," said, having hit speed dial. "I got a name. Vincent."


	8. Ferris Wheel

**Essential Listening: Levitate, by Imelda May**

Grace came in just about the same time as Morgan called.

JJ had just got off the phone with Hotch, who had filled them in on the murder in gangland, and where they suspected their unsub was headed. Everyone had been on tenterhooks in the minutes since.

Emily had started gearing up, Garcia had been working her keyboard so hard Emily was surprised it hadn't started smoking, Reid was pulling apart any paperwork they already had for the name 'Vincent', which had come in from the camera shop earlier. JJ had begun throwing things together for an Amber Alert, in case they didn't get there in time.

Spence gave a sort of low growl of frustration. "Rossi texted. Stanley's missing."

"Damn," said JJ, and hurried out to get the Amber Alert – standard practice in the case of a missing child – rolling.

Then Grace appeared, a dark, oddly haunted expression on her face, and Morgan called Garcia. Barely lifting her eyes from the screen, she hit 'speaker' with the end of her pen.

"_Garcia. I got a name. Vincent."_

Garcia made a sound of frustration. "Morgan, I'm gonna need a surname, honey," she told him.

"_She can't remember."_

"How did he have contact with the kid?" Grace asked, coming to a halt behind Reid's chair.

Given the situation, Emily barely registered that she was resting her uninjured hand on Reid's shoulder, as if this was a totally normal thing. Neither he nor Grace appeared to have noticed the act at all. Reid didn't even flinch.

"_Some kind of mentoring programme,"_ Morgan told them. _"Kate can't remember which one. Stanley's been in a whole bunch_."

"Can you at least cross-check the name Vincent against all the mentoring programmes in Buffalo?" Emily asked.

Garcia shook her head. "I think we'll get more from the video."

"We're running out of time," Emily reminded her, but Garcia stuck to her guns.

"_Come on, Garcia, we gotta find this kid."_

"Trust me, okay!" she said. "Just give me a second!"

They all got up and craned over her shoulder, willing her to find what they needed. A newspaper article appeared in the background.

"That's her," said Reid. "That's the woman from the film."

"June 5th, 1983," Emily read aloud. "Kim Rowlings was killed in her home. When police arrived, they found her son, Vincent Rowlings. Oh, Garcia!"

"I could kiss you," remarked Grace.

"Seconded," Emily added, with a grin.

"Thank me when we've got an address," she said, fingers still flying across the keyboard.

"Vincent was found sitting with the body of his murdered mother," Reid read. "Police believe that he sat with her for more than twenty-four hours…"

Grace made a face of sympathy and disgust. "He was only nine years old. I guess that's why he couldn't kill Stanley – he recognised himself in him."

"He filmed his mother's murder and hid the tape from the police all these years," said Emily, frowning.

The computer made an electrical sound of triumph.

"Vincent Rowlings. 565 Pearl Street, East Side, Buffalo!" Garcia announced.

Immediately, Emily and Reid peeled off to gear up and head out. "Tell Hotch we're on route."

Grace kissed Garcia on the cheek, making her laugh.

"I love you!" Emily called over her shoulder.

"Uh, someone's gotta go be with Kate Charlotte – the kid's mom – and we're pretty stretched," said Henderson's uniformed man-Friday as they headed into the bullpen.

"Uh –"

"I got it," said Grace, hurrying out of the office. "That I can do."

0o0

Hotch led the charge, kicking down the door with particular venom. He always got tense on cases involving children.

Spencer followed Emily inside, focussing on clearing the rooms and checking every part of the dingy little apartment. There was no sign of Vincent, but there was a large pool of blood in the bathroom, where he'd obviously tried to clean up and bandage the gunshot wound, and the further in the team got, the louder the video that had been playing in the background of Vincent's film got.

It was remarkably weird to be walking around in the spaces they had been watching on loop for the past day.

The editing suite was on the far side of the kitchen. They flung the door open, but that was empty, too. The film Vincent had inadvertently taken of his mother's murder was playing over and over, and looked like it was set up never to turn off.

Clearly, Vincent's mind had got stuck somewhere in that awful day and had never quite got out.

There were stacks and stacks of videos and dvd cases on the shelves, which didn't bode well.

Putting his gun away, Spencer accessed the video feed while Hotch called Garcia on his wrist radio.

"Garcia, I need you to conference everybody, right now!"

There was a brief pause, then: _"Hotch, JJ's with me and you've got Rossi, Pearce and Morgan."_

"_Hey man, we got Stan's adoptive mother, Kate, here," _said Morgan, with a touch of warning to be mindful of how much to say._ "Stanley's been gone about forty minutes and there's blood here, on the windowsill."_

Spencer shared a look with Emily. _Forty minutes? Crap._

"Kate, did Vincent take Stan out?" Hotch asked. "Was there a favourite place they liked to go?"

Over the conference call, they heard Rossi prompt her: _"A park, playground – anything like that?"_

"_No, no!" _she said, distressed. _"I – I only allowed him to see Stanley here, under this roof! Under my supervision!"_

Reid grimaced. He could hear the pain and fear in her voice.

"_He's been coming round more since I told him we were moving away, but –"_

"_That's a possible stressor,"_ Grace put in.

"_When did you tell Vincent that?"_ Rossi asked.

"_Uh – like, just over a week ago. Why?"_

"_What?"_ said Garcia, from the Police Department.

JJ answered. _"He killed Michelle Watson just over a week ago."_

"That must have been what triggered Vincent's behaviour change," Spencer said.

Stanley's adoptive mother cried out in horror. _"Oh, God!"_

He heard Grace's calm, practical voice over the radio. _"You had no way of knowing, Kate. Focus on helping us bring Stanley home."_

Prentiss, who had been rummaging on the shelves to the left of the editing equipment, straightened up, holding a notepad with a large '29' on it. "Kate, Vincent's written the number twenty-nine and drawn a circle around it numerous times. Today is the twenty-ninth," she continued, as Hotch took it from her to flip through the rest of the pages. "We believe the circles may represent a specific location. They would have talked about it, or he might even have been there before."

"Did Vincent talk to Stan about adventures they could take? Places they could visit."

The silence that greeted these questions suggested that no, they hadn't – at least to her knowledge.

"_What were their favourite things to do?"_ Rossi asked.

"_He – he just likes to make things," _she said.

"_Like these? His models?"_ Grace asked, and Spencer guessed they were right by them.

"_Yeah, Stanley loves to build things,"_ said Kate. _"Vincent used to help him."_

"_Construction sets?"_ Morgan asked.

"_Yeah."_

There was a pause as they started looking around.

"_Ferris wheel?" _Morgan suggested. _"It's a circle. When did they start to build this?"_

"_Uh – um – the last couple of months,"_ Kate told them. _"He's been in here every night."_

"_Garcia, check Buffalo and the surrounding areas for any theme parks – permanent or visiting," _Morgan instructed.

They heard the tell-tale tapping of the keys. "_There's a theme park just outside of Buffalo."_

"_Is there a Ferris wheel?"_ Hotch asked.

"_Um… yes! I'm sending you the address!"_

"You go," said Hotch, as the conference disconnected in several places at once. "I'll stay here in case he comes back. I wanna go over everything and see how many others we've missed."

"Got it," said Prentiss, as she and Spencer raced out of the door.

0o0

Rossi and Morgan had gone on ahead, leaving Grace to summon a detective and bundle a distraught Kate into his car.

"Oh God, what if we're too late?" she asked, as the detective drove through the city.

"We won't be," Grace assured her, willing this to be true.

Kate reached out and clutched her hand. "I've always tried to do the best for Stanley – I don't know what I'll do, if – if –"

"Don't think about that, now," Grace told her, holding her hand. "You've done nothing wrong."

It seemed like an age before they reached the gates of the fairground, where hundreds of Buffalo residents were wandering around, blowing off steam. It was fairly self-evident where the others had cut through the crowd, since there was still a lengthy gap. Armed, shouty FBI agents tended to do that to crowds.

Grace and Kate hurried through, all the way to the safe distance where Henderson and her team were keeping the public back. Grace flashed her badge at a detective and ushered Kate past him, but not too far. She was reasonably sure they were safe; guns weren't Vincent's style.

But then, a lot of Vincent's style had changed since he'd met Stanley – and more so in the past week. Grace angled herself so she was between Kate and the Ferris wheel, just in case.

Together, they stared up at the ride. The man in charge of it was helping Morgan and Rossi usher the other passengers off and out of the way.

"Oh God, there he is!" Kate cried, her hands over her mouth.

Slowly, the basket containing Stanley and a vicious serial killer inched downwards.

"Stanley's okay, I think," said Grace softly. "He's still moving and he doesn't look distressed. Oh –" she exclaimed as Kate grabbed her by the shoulder.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes –"

Morgan was shouting at Vincent, but he didn't seem to be responding. Grace frowned. About halfway down, the air seemed to shimmer for a moment above the basket, as if one of the occupants had let out a great breath of steam.

"I think," she said, narrowing her eyes, "Stanley is going to be just fine."

Her ears popped, and while Morgan carried Stanley back towards them and Kate stumbled a few steps forward to fling her arms around him on a nearby bench, Grace met the eyes of the man who had murdered at least twelve woman and one gangbanger. He had a particularly doleful stare – which was not in any way helped by the fact that she could see the display from hot dog stand behind him through his features – but otherwise looked completely normal.

If Grace hadn't known what he'd done he would have seemed entirely innocent. She could well understand why Kate and the people at the mentor programme had been completely taken in.

He looked at her, then at Stanley. "He saved me," said Vincent's echo, eyes dropping back to the boy on the bench. "He showed me what I was – and what I couldn't be…" He looked back at Grace as Reid and Emily arrived behind her. "I'm sorry. So sorry."

"You okay?" Reid asked, following her line of sight with a frown.

Grace glanced at Emily, who was on the phone to Garcia, telling her everything was okay and that JJ could call off the Amber Alert.

"Yeah," she said.

He must have read from her expression what was happening. Unexpectedly, Reid touched the back of her hand. This time, when he saw the spectre of one of their unsubs, he barely even flinched.

"Derek?" Stanley asked, beginning to cry.

Morgan crouched in front of the boy. "Yeah, kid?"

Stanley reached up and read Morgan's expression with his hands. "Did he kill my mom?"

Morgan didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. He put his hand on Stanley's shoulder and the little boy understood. He turned his face into Kate's shoulder and cried as Morgan walked back to the others.

Across from them, Vincent looked down, then back at Stanley, and then he faded into the night.

"Uh… you wanna fill me in on that, later on?" Spencer asked, in an undertone, and she gave a slight nod.

_Why not?_ she thought._ It's not like I'll be sleeping._

0o0

_No matter how dark the moment, love and hope are always possible._

_George Chakiris_

0o0

"I cannot believe neither one of you has seen _Flashdance_! It's like _the law_!" Garcia complained, as Grace paid the highly amused stallholder for a variety of fresh vegetables.

Spencer rolled his eyes, wishing he had never brought it up, and caught a glance from Grace that suggested she shared much the same sentiment.

"It's just never really come up," Grace said, as Garcia sorted through her change.

"Well, it has now, Missy," she declared. In a much more normal voice she asked for a pound of cherries.

"It's my wife's favourite movie," the stallholder admitted.

Grace turned a look of mild betrayal upon him and he had to duck behind the leeks to keep from laughing. Spencer, too, had to look away and cover his mouth, hoping that neither of his friends had seen – or he'd never hear the end of it.

"You see!" Garcia crowed in triumph. "Thank you," she added, as she paid for her cherries. "As soon as we get back to Reid's apartment, I am firing up Netflix and we are watching the whole thing. No arguments."

"Don't I get a say?" Spencer asked, though he was aware there was little point in debating it.

At this point, Garcia would probably gleefully have them watch the whole back-catalogue of films he had mentally classified as 'girly things from the eighties that I don't want to watch'. Not that there was anything wrong with 'girly' – it just wasn't how he preferred to spend his Saturday afternoons.

Grace appeared to have sensed this danger, too, because she narrowed her eyes at the other woman as they strolled away from the hapless stallholder, who was still sniggering into his vegetables. "Alright, then I propose a cultural exchange."

"That sounds promising," said Spencer, quickly.

"I'm listening," Garcia announced, sternly.

"How about this: we each pick a film we think the other two ought to watch, which they have never seen." She stopped at the bakery stand and picked up a farmhouse cob. "That way, you can make us watch _Flashdance –_ and we can retain our sanity."

Spencer let out an actual guffaw, which was not something he had hitherto expected ever to do, and Garcia thwapped her friend on her good arm.

"Hey! _Flashdance _is one of the classics!"

Spencer met Grace's dancing grey-blue eyes above their friend's head, but somehow managed to forebear to comment. Instead, he applied himself to picking out a loaf of olive and walnut bread. He felt colour begin to rise to his cheeks. It had been a long time since Grace had looked at him like that, with such open, playful mischief in her eyes.

"Okay," said Garcia, as they paid for their bread. "Okay. Say I agree to this cultural exchange thing, what movies would you guys be bringing to the frilly pink coffee table?"

"I would like it to be known that my table is neither frilly, nor pink," Spencer remarked, for the sake of accuracy.

"Ah, boys and their fragile masculinity," Garcia lamented, as Grace made a poor attempt at concealing her amusement.

Grace poked him in the chest. "And here was I, thinking you were immune!"

"Uh, but my table's actually brown…" he protested.

Grace patted him on the shoulder, trying not to laugh, though he wasn't sure why. Not that he minded. Without thinking, he offered her his arm and if she hesitated for a microsecond before taking it, he chose to ignore it. That, and the distinct look of amusement Garcia was entirely unable to suppress.

But he didn't care. The amount of time Garcia and Morgan spent flirting, given that they were platonic soulmates, meant she had no ground to stand on in terms of teasing – and he was fairly sure the rest of the team wouldn't hear about it from her.

"I was thinking _Keeping Mum_," said Grace. "Which is a British comedy about a serial killer, but I think I've already made you watch that?"

Spencer nodded. "It was very good, though. Has magic broccoli in it."

"Magic broccoli?" Garcia echoed, interested. "I will put it on my list."

"So, I'll subject you to _The Full Monty_, because I'm pretty sure it's on Netflix and it actually references _Flashdance_."

"Doesn't that have naked men in it?" Garcia asked.

"Less than you'd think."

"I guess we could watch _Rashômon_," suggested Spencer, for whom the lure of nudity in a movie was largely moot. "It's a Kurosawa film about a murder – a bunch of people give testimony about it, including the victim, via a medium, and all their accounts conflict."

"Cool," said Grace, as Garcia muttered something about leaving the dead guys at work. "Subtitles?"

He nodded.

"Maybe that one first, then, or I'll probably fall asleep trying to watch it."

Garcia shot her a sideways look. "Are you sleeping any better?" she asked tentatively.

"A bit," Grace replied, giving Spencer's arm a squeeze.

He had spent the last three nights either on the couch in her hotel room, or in Grace's spare room, because he knew from experience that the nightmares were a lot easier to cope with if you knew there was another warm body nearby. A couple of times they had sat up in the dark, talking into the early hours, but mostly he had just let her sleep.

He supposed it should bother him more than it did, but he had no problem at all watching over his friend. She had done the same for him, after all. Before they'd met Garcia that morning, she had brought her stuff over to his apartment to crash there instead.

It felt good. Easy. Like their friendship had healed, somewhat.

Grace wasn't telling him everything, but that was okay, as long as she was okay.

She smiled up at him as Garcia waxed lyrical about the merits of falafel for lunch and he couldn't help but smile back, content to be bickering with his friends on a warm day, with no one's grisly demise to dissect, and Grace's arm tucked into his like it belonged there.


	9. Roadkill

**Essential listening: Cars, by Gary Numan**

Penelope rubbed her temple, her eyes already feeling tired even though it was still pretty early in the day. Usually she managed to come to work with her effortless perkiness firmly in place, ready to face whatever fresh horror the bad guys (and girls) of America decided to throw their way, but not today.

Today, she had a migraine.

It felt like her eyeballs were being boiled.

She took a sip of her triple shot macchiato and squinted at the screen.

"Penelope is…" she mumbled, as if writing a Facebook status update, "hoping that the migraine that she woke up this morning goes away in time for the _Small Wonder_ marathon tonight."

Someone knocked on the door, momentarily startling her, before speaking. "You decent?"

Penelope's frown melted immediately and she turned to her boyfriend with the beginnings of a smirk. "Never."

She raised an eyebrow as Kevin took a few steps inside her tech lair. Where, ordinarily, he would be wearing khakis and a nerdy shirt, today he was suited and booted to perfection. He looked almost _too_ neat, though Penelope wasn't complaining.

_Now, there's a sight for sore eyes_, she thought, her smile increasing.

"Well, look at you! Did somebody die?" she quipped, aware that if someone had in fact shuffled off the mortal coil, she probably would have heard about it by now.

He laughed, looking down at himself. "Oh, no."

"BAU yearbook photo?" Garcia asked (by which she meant the annual renewal of their photo IDs), and then frowned, wondering if she had forgotten that was coming up.

"No, I have a job interview," Kevin explained.

"Ooh, hey rock star," she said, reaching out and fiddling with his collar. "Are you up for that systems promotion?"

"No, no," he said, looking mildly anxious (which, for Kevin, was quite a lot of anxious). "My friend is a head hunter for the NSA. They're looking for analysts versed in cyber warfare."

"Really? That sounds exciting."

"Yeah, the job is totally cutting edge," he said, and although she could tell he was excited, she could also tell he wasn't telling her something.

_I've been working here too long,_ she thought. _All this suspicion and paranoia is wearing off on me._

"Yeah, it sounds like it," she said aloud. "Are – are you sure you're gonna wanna make the commute to Fort Mead every day?"

Kevin immediately looked awkward and Penelope suddenly felt much less paranoid and much more justifiably concerned.

"Um," he coughed, "actually it's an overseas position."

Penelope froze, feeling like a boulder had just dropped into her stomach. "Where overseas?"

"I can't say, it's classified," he told her apologetically.

"Are – are we breaking up right now?" she asked, beginning to panic.

"No! No, not at all," he told her hurriedly. "They haven't hired me yet – it's my final interview."

"Final?" she echoed, her voice sounding small and crushed even to her own ears. "How long have you known about this?"

"A… a few weeks," he admitted. "I didn't want to say anything to you until it was real."

"Okay, okay," she said. She could accept that. No point planning – whatever he was thinking of planning – without knowing where they stood. Still, it was scary. "And… this is what you want?"

Kevin sighed. "I'm not sure. I mean, the long-distance thing would be rough."

"Yeah, it would be," she said, trying to avoid making this an argument. "Considering you can't even tell me where you're going."

"Well, I could if you applied with me," he said. "They need other people."

"Leave the BAU?" Penelope said softly, glancing briefly around at her banks of computers.

_But this is home_, she thought desperately.

"Just think about it?" Kevin asked.

He looked so earnest and sweet, and she _did_ love him – she definitely did, but…

"Um, my head hurts," she said, turning away and reclaiming her chair. "And JJ just brought in a case, so I need to get back to work."

She heard his footsteps retreating and paused, swivelling in her seat. "Kevin?"

He turned back and gave her a sad, long look.

"Whatever happens, with – with… Um, good luck."

He smiled then, his hundred-watt grin that she only saw when it was just the two of them, and walked off with his chin a little higher.

She watched him go before returning to her monitors, thinking fiercely, _I don't want to lose you._

0o0

JJ emerged from her office, ready to start rounding up her team.

She paused to stabilise her stack of files, using the crook of her arm to pull the door closed behind her and was about to set off when something made her stop in her tracks, then instinctively duck into the lee of another door.

The corridor was mostly empty, given that most agents were presently in briefings at this time of morning. In fact, there were only two other people currently occupying the hallway. They must have walked up the side stairs, rather than using the elevators, and given the BAU offices were on the sixth floor, there was no real reason for them to have done that. Unless they didn't want to be observed.

_Which is entirely possible,_ JJ thought, with the way Spence was currently looking at Grace. They were angled towards one another almost intimately, deep in conversation. It reminded JJ of the day, years before, when she had seen them speaking privately when they were investigating murder by arson in San Francisco. This seemed different, somehow; then, they had clearly been discussing stress related to the case. Now, however…

She watched as Spencer made a presumably witty remark and Grace threw her head back, laughing.

A soft, deeply affectionate expression that she had never seen before crept over her friend's face as Grace made her reply, pushing a short, dirty-blonde curl over her ear as she spoke. She had Spencer's full attention.

Gently, he touched her forearm, newly freed from the plaster cast she had worn for the last six weeks, and Grace glanced down, smiling in a way she never really did at work.

JJ ducked her head, trying to hide her grin, and let the door she was leaning against shut with a loud click.

By the time she drew level with them, their expressions were much more work-appropriate, which was a shame, really, but the number one pass-time of agents not currently scurrying around trying to stop people getting away with murder was gossip – and after the year those two had had, wherever their recovering relationship was right now, it would do better out of the departmental spotlight.

0o0

"An unsub who kills with a car," said Prentiss, when they were all gathered in the situation room. "Haven't seen that before."

"Neither have the police in Bend, Oregon," said JJ, manipulating the remote for the smart screen. "Which is why they need her help."

She glanced at Aaron, who took the signal to continue, "Two victims in the last twelve days."

"The first was hit while on a morning jog," said JJ, reading from her notes. "Maria Delgado, twenty-three. The second was a stranded motorist, Shannon Makeley, forty-three."

"What makes the locals think they were connected?" Morgan asked, flipping through the files in front of him.

"Well, mainly that they were both backed over after the initial impact," she told them, with a grimace.

"No accident there," Rossi observed.

Pearce gave a low whistle. "The vehicular equivalent of multiple stab wounds," she postulated. "Rage?"

"They matched treads at both crime scenes," Aaron informed them. "Large wheels, all-terrain."

"Wounds also indicate a raised bumper, so they're thinking large SUV or truck," JJ put in.

"Do we know the model or make?" Reid asked.

"Uh, the tyres are factory issue," JJ replied, bringing up the images of the treads taken at both scenes. "They could be on a number of different models."

Pearce, who had been reading the forensic report, added, "Tyre impressions suggest they're pretty new – no wearing or pitting. So this unsub takes care of their car – or has, up until the first murder."

Aaron nodded, one eye on the way she was flexing the fingers of her left hand, gently turning the wrist that had recently been in plaster. He made a mental note to pointedly inquire whether she needed her pain meds refilled before they set off for Bend.

"No witnesses to either incident?" Prentiss asked.

Aaron shook his head, making a noise that indicated the negative.

"A hit and run is loud," Rossi reflected. "Draws attention. Somebody usually sees or hears something."

"Both victims were attacked in secluded areas," said JJ.

Morgan raised an eyebrow at the preliminary autopsy report for the first victim, Maria. "Two tons of metal make a hell of a weapon."

"Serial killers have been known to become attached to their vehicles," Spencer reflected. "Um, Bittaker and Norris even gave theirs a nickname."

"Murder Mack," Rossi recalled, with a nod, but Aaron shook his head.

"Bittaker and Norris were sexual sadists. There's no sign of torture here."

"Feels like thrill kills," Prentiss added. "Opportunistic."

"Easy targets, randomly selected," Dave mused.

"With this type of impact the vehicle shouldn't be too hard to pick out of a line-up," Morgan remarked.

"Yeah, there should be significant front-end damage," Reid agreed.

"Unless the unsub's repairing it," Pearce suggested. "If he is keeping his tyres in this good a shape, it's no big leap to suppose he'd know his way around knocking out sizeable dents."

"We should check out anyone with a connection to motor repair shops," said Prentiss, nodding. "Or more intense hobbyists who have the bigger equipment at home."

"Somehow, I don't think it's gonna be that easy," Rossi reflected sadly.

0o0

"_I'm not sure about automobiles. With all their speed forward, they may be a step backward in civilisation."_

_Booth Tarkington_

0o0

"Well, I think it's safe to assume that our unsub is male," Prentiss said, without a hint of irony.

Derek glanced at her over the top of his file, quirking an eyebrow that she merely shrugged at. He turned back to his reading with a slight smile.

"I would agree with you, given what we know about aggressive driving and road rage," said Hotch.

"I don't know," Pearce remarked. "When I was on the beat in London the top three worst traffic offenders were London cabbies, middle class women on the school run and tiny, angry old ladies with blue rinses. And admittedly most London cabbies are male – or were, back then – but those old dears packed quite a whack if they got a good swing on their handbag."

"Terrifying OAPs from your nation's capital notwithstanding," said Prentiss, aiming a grin at her friend, "men do have an unnatural attachment to their cars."

There was a moment when all the male occupants of the jet shared a look with one another, wondering if any of the others cared as much about their cars as – say, as a totally random example – Pearce did for her bike.

"That is true," said JJ, without even looking up.

"Wait a minute, I don't know about unnatural," Derek protested.

He looked for help from the others, but Hotch had gone back to his paperwork, Rossi simply looked amused and Reid had that expression on his face that he got when he found the division of opinions about assigned gender stereotypes both fascinating and utterly alien.

_Despite the care the kid takes over his ancient VW bug,_ Derek thought, uncharitably. _'But it's a classic, man!'_

He scoffed, inside his own head.

Pearce, he noted, was harbouring a slightly wicked smile, but wisely refraining from comment – for now, at least.

JJ looked up, gave Derek a look of mild disgust at whatever image was presently in her head and said, "I once dated a guy who washed his car more than he washed his hair."

"Ew," said Pearce, at once.

"A nice car needs love," Rossi put in and Morgan pointed at him in acknowledgement.

"And a woman doesn't?" JJ retorted, amused.

The man with three divorces under his belt pulled a face, humouring her. "Uh, I'm not qualified to answer that."

There was a round of chuckles.

"Anyway, Pearce named her motorcycle," he added, sending her a wicked smirk that she deflected with a roll of her eyes.

"Thank you," said Derek. "And she describes tinkering with it as a 'hot date'."

"You leave my darling Lily out of this," she answered gamely. "And my lack of love life."

Several people snorted at this, leaving Derek to wonder how many of the others harboured growing suspicions about her and Reid and how well they seemed to be getting on these days. The kid himself wore a slight smile that didn't look at all out of place, given the light banter, but it seemed to Derek that it slid more up one side of his face than the other when Pearce glanced up and met his gaze for a second.

Prentiss laughed. "I'm just saying, big car – it's phallic."

"Compensating?" Hotch proposed.

"Or over-compensating," Reid added.

"Impotent?" Derek wondered.

"Possibly," said the kid. "If the unsub sees himself as physically defective, the – uh – car not only gives him the power and control he otherwise lacks, but also serves as a shield."

"Allowing him to avoid physical contact?" Hotch inferred.

"So, maybe he is physically incapable in some way," Pearce suggested. "Something that means he can't use a more traditional method of killing."

"Power and control, female victims," Prentiss mused. "That almost reads like a rape profile."

"Vehicular rape," Rossi pondered.

"Rape and thrill kill are two very different profiles," Derek pointed out.

There was a pause as they considered this.

"What does victimology tell us?" Hotch asked.

"Nothing, yet," JJ responded. "Shannon Makeley was a white, married, forty-one-year-old commodities trader. Maria Delgado was a twenty-three-year-old Hispanic grad student and competitive triathlete."

"So far gender's our only link."

"Guys, if our unsub is using the road as his hunting ground, does it matter what they look like?" Pearce put in.

"How do you mean?" Hotch asked.

"Well, when I'm driving I tend to see other cars more than I see other passengers," she pointed out.

"That's true," said Rossi. "But would an unsub really transfer his need to kill to the occupant of a vehicle based on its model?"

"Maybe," Hotch reflected. "But Maria Delgado wasn't with her car at the time of her murder, so the point is moot. Hopefully the crime scenes will tell us more."

0o0

Shannon Makeley's blood still stained the cracked tarmac just outside Bend, Oregon.

It would have made a pleasant drive, Dave reflected. Woods on either side, wide enough lanes to relax a little, ten minutes outside of town. There was a bit of a blind bend where the victim's car had been found, then a nice straight run up to where the tyre treads and blood pool were.

The perfect place to build up speed.

"She lived a little out of town," Detective Quinn told them, as Morgan followed the double yellow lines at the centre of the road back towards where the other two men were standing. "She was on her way home from work when she broke down."

"So, she breaks down way back there and she gets out and starts walkin'," Morgan said, breaking it down. "Why not call for help?"

Dave, who had already checked, waved his cell in Morgan's general direction. "No service. From the treads we know he made a complete stop here," he went on, gesturing fifty yards further up the road. "And then he hit the gas."

_Definitely not an accident_, Dave thought.

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Full stop in the middle of the road? I take it there's not much traffic out here."

"Not on this stretch," said Detective Quinn. "Not at that time of day, at least."

"Done workin' by three o'clock in the afternoon?" Morgan questioned.

"Broker, specialised in foreign markets," the detective explained. "Time difference made for some odd hours."

Rossi frowned at the pool of blood, contemplatively. For an opportunistic murder it all seemed too convenient. The location was perfect for this murder. The unsub couldn't have planned it better.

Unless, of course, he _had_ planned it.

"What are you thinkin' about, Rossi?" Morgan asked, when he had been quiet for a little too long.

"What are the odds that she broke down right here?" he asked. "No phone signal, no witnesses, nowhere to run?"

They glanced behind them, to where the trees banked steeply down towards a stream. She could have flung herself in there, but it would have been dangerous – and people found reasoning difficult when they were pumped full of panic and adrenaline, which was why they tended to run in a straight line, rather than dodge out of the way of something.

Morgan nodded. "Perfect place for an ambush."


	10. Black Hole

**Essential Listening: Behind Blue Eyes, by Limp Bizkit**

"Not a very popular jogging area," Detective Feder told them. "Not too many people can take that hill coming up here."

"Well, she was a triathlete," Emily reflected, as she and Hotch followed him up the steep incline to the taped off area at the side of the road.

Maria Delgado had been canny enough and strong enough to dodge off the road and try to climb the bank beside it, but she had lost her footing – and that was when the unsub had run her over. The first time.

"We figure she jogged in from the main road, heading for the trail up here," he said, indicating a dirt track leading into the woods. "Assailant drove in behind her, ran her down right here."

"Uh… A woman, jogging alone? No," said Emily, aware of the instinct that women cultivated and developed when they were out on their own. That extra sense that told you when to take one earbud out, or when to make an unexpected pit stop at a convenience store until whoever was consistently behind you had moved past. "She would have known if someone was tailing her."

"Maybe he was already here," Hotch suggested, looking around.

Part of what presumably had been a parking lot had been fenced off, a bunch of earth-moving equipment rusting gently behind it. It restricted lines of sight, which might have given the unsub everything he needed to stay out of sight.

"What's the story with all this equipment?" he asked.

Feder followed his gaze. "Construction shut down months ago. No reason for anyone to be up here."

"Nice and private," Hotch mused. Emily nodded. "It's the ideal place to run somebody down without being seen."

"Little convenient," Emily remarked, thinking that the likelihood of this being an opportunistic murder was diminishing by the second.

"Too convenient," Hotch agreed. "What if it was her? What if she were the reason he was up here?"

Emily's mouth fell open. "You don't think this was a random attack."

She wondered how often Maria Delgado jogged up this particular stretch of road. Was it on her regular route? Had he been stalking her specifically? If that was the case then why? What about her had called to him to trigger his behaviour?

Her thoughts racing, she watched as Hotch bent down, peering at something on the ground, then stuck his finger into a patch of earth that was much darker than the soil around it.

"Oil," he said, when it came away rich and sticky. "He was lying in wait."

0o0

"He may have specifically targeted these women," said Aaron.

He and Rossi were back at the Police Department with Detective Quinn, Reid and an increasingly stir-crazy Grace. Although she had finally had the cast removed (about which she was ecstatic), her wrist wasn't yet strong enough to accurately support her gun – and honestly, she didn't want to push it just yet in case she had to fire the thing and the kick dislodged something. So, she was waiting to be declared well enough to be recertified, which meant she was still relegated to the office.

But at least the lack of cast made everything distinctly less itchy.

She had spent the morning listing the major nuances of both their potential profile types on one of the boards and familiarising herself with everything in the files, while Spencer fussed over the map, creative a geographic profile. He had started a traffic profile, too, which they had learned from the 'Road Warrior' case in Orange County* several months previously could be a handy thing to have.

"That takes thrill kill off the table," Rossi observed.

Grace nodded and wiped the column marked 'thrill kill' off the murder board. "Means we need to take a closer look at our victims," she mused.

"Because the murders were planned in advance?" Quinn asked.

"Yeah," Spencer replied, tearing his eyes from the map. "This type of stalking behaviour indicates a personal motive. There's a reason he chose these victims."

"So you think he knows them?" Detective Quinn asked, and Spencer nodded.

"Well, he knows their work schedules, jogging routes, drive patterns," Hotch reasoned.

Grace nodded too. "At the very least, he's had some form of interaction with them in order for his behaviour to be triggered."

"That's how he know where to strike," said Spencer.

"Well, that explains the Delgado girl. She was on a run," the detective remarked. "But he couldn't've known Shannon Makeley's car was going to break down."

He had a point.

"Unless he made that happen," Grace suggested. "There's already a hint from the forensics that this guy might know his way around an engine."

"Did you look at her car?" Rossi asked.

"Guys at the impound said the water pump blew," the detective told them. "They said it's a common enough problem."

"Which means it's something that would likely go undetected until the car stopped working," said Grace, thinking it through. "And something someone familiar with cars would know – and maybe know how to cause." She frowned and looked at Spencer, the go-to man for all mathematical questions. "Would it be fairly straightforward to estimate how far the car could go before it ran out of water?"

"I mean, if you knew the model of the car and how much water it had in it," Spencer said, shrugging his agreement. "Yeah, you could probably get it down to the mile."

"It still at the impound?" Rossi asked Quinn, who nodded. "Could be worth a look," he suggested, transferring his gaze to Hotch, who nodded.

"Why don't you see what you can find – and take Pearce, before she wears a hole in the carpet."

Reid gave a quiet snort that he tried and failed to cover by turning away and Rossi didn't even bother hiding his smirk.

"Babysitting duty, huh?," he said, as she subjected Hotch to a withering stare that would have had more strength if she hadn't been utterly fucking delighted to be getting out of the office for half an hour. "Come on, bambina piccola."

Grace narrowed her eyes at Rossi instead. "It's a good job I like you."

0o0

Shannon Makeley's husband was distraught, confused and very, very upset. Which probably ruled him out as her murderer, but Emily would have Garcia check his alibi for both crimes just in case. Still, if he _had_ murdered his wife and covered it up with the Delgado murder he was doing an extremely good job of acting like a man on the verge of falling apart.

"I just want it to make sense," he said, an edge of raw desperation to his voice. "But this? I don't know…"

"We may be able to make some sense out of it with your help," said Emily, passing him a picture of Maria Delgado. "Do you recognise that woman?"

He gave the picture a reasonable study before shaking his head. "No, should I?"

"She was the first victim," Emily explained. "We're trying to determine if she was connected to your wife in some way."

He stared at her, baffled and grieving. "Connected?"

"We believe he may have been following them," Hotch explained, as gently as he could. "Did Shannon ever mention noticing anyone?"

"No…"

"Did you ever notice anyone out of the ordinary in your neighbourhood?" Emily prompted patiently. It was a difficult question to raise without a victim's family taking it as an accusation that they should have noticed something – should have done something to save a person they loved. But they had to ask. "Maybe someone who was walking or driving past the house repeatedly?"

"No!"

"What about a truck, or a large SUV?" Hotch pressed.

Immediately, the man's micro-expressions altered. Emily felt her pulse quicken: this was it!

"Thursday, I was expecting a package," he told them, wringing the water bottle in his hands. "I kept checking the street. There was a truck parked a couple of houses down. I didn't recognise it."

"Could you see anyone inside?" Hotch asked, calmly.

He shook his head. "Couldn't tell. The windows were blacked out."

"Tinted?"

"Yeah, only all the way round, like you see with limousines."

_Forensic countermeasure_, Emily thought, sharing a speaking look with her team leader.

"Would you recognise it if you saw it again?" the senior agent asked.

The man nodded, looking calmer and more centred, now that he had contributed to the investigation, even in a small way. "Maybe."

0o0

"We figured it was the water pump because it was pretty much melted," said the forensic mechanic they had called out to the impound. He leaned into the engine and bent a thick rubber pipe towards them, squeezing it so they could see the two-inch jagged cut in the side of it. "But we didn't figure on this."

"The car's pretty new – that's not normal wear and tear, is it?" Pearce – who knew more about engines than Dave did – asked, peering into the engine.

"Nah, the rest of the line's in good condition," the technician told them. "You can tell from the jagged edge."

"How did they do it?" Dave asked, inspecting the damage.

"Reached a blade right through the grill," the technician told them. "Something like that."

"Wouldn't've even had to pop the hood," Dave mused. "And if she drove away without water in the radiator, that explains the overheating."

The mechanic nodded. "Explains the pump, too."

"Thank you," said Dave, and both agents shook hands with him before setting back off across the dusty parking lot. "Sabotage," he reflected. "He's more focused than we thought. Well-organised, highly motivated."

"Mmm," Pearce agreed. "Which begs the question: what is it about these women that sets him off?"

Dave raised an eyebrow, nodding. "Different ages, appearance, social class. He's not hunting a specific type."

"Then their only connection is the unsub," she argued. "There has to have been contact before the attacks."

"We profiled a guy who's afraid of contact," Dave reminded her, though she wasn't wrong. "The truck's a shield."

Pearce was quiet for a moment, matching his stride. "Their behaviour then, maybe? Something they do, or a mannerism that he picks up on?"

"Something about his perception triggers his fixation," Dave considered.

"The way they look at him, what they're wearing, something connected to his past," she continued. "I mean, it's a bit of a bugger because that could be literally anything at this point. Whatever it is, the victims have no clue what's been set in motion."

"And then he's coming for them," Dave finished, as they reached the SUV. "Ready or not."

0o0

Derek sighed, leaning over a detective's desk. Reid and Emily were reviewing the case files, looking for any kind of connection between these women. He was helping Shannon Makeley's distressed and grieving husband try to identify the car he had seen lurking outside their house in the days leading up to his wife's murder.

"These are all Ford models," he said, as the two of them peered at the photographs spread over the desk. "The grills are kinda like you described?"

"Yeah, I guess," said Makeley, not sounding totally sure. He picked up one of the pictures. "It didn't have that emblem, though," he said, pointing to the Ford symbol on the front of the car. "No hood ornament. Nothing like that."

_Okay_, thought Derek. _So he removed identifying features. Clever._

"I understand this is hard, but it really will help us," he told the man, reading some of his frustration.

"I'll keep looking," he promised and Derek patted him on the shoulder before joining Hotch, who had just got back from a budget-related phone call in the parking lot, and Detective Quinn.

"How's it going?" the senior agent asked.

"Well, we're down to an older model. Black, American made," Derek told him. "Sounds like he de-badged the truck so nobody could ID him.

"I can start a list from DMV, matching what we've got," said Quinn, with little enthusiasm.

It was a long shot and they all knew it.

"A list like that's gonna kill a lotta trees," Derek reflected, and Quinn nodded emphatically. They needed another way to narrow things down.

"The truck's only going to get us so far," said Hotch. "What we need to do is build on the profile.

"Well, he's mechanically inclined," said Reid. "He certainly knows his way around an engine block."

"And we know he has the kit to pull a dent, if he's fixing the body damage to the truck," Prentiss added.

"Both victims were killed during prime office hours," Hotch pointed out. "Means he has a flexible work schedule."

Reid frowned. "Or he might not be working at all. Stalking someone, getting to know their schedule? That's a pretty serious time commitment."

Quinn sighed. "Eight percent of the state's out of work."

"And job loss is a classic stressor," Derek put in.

"It's a start," said Hotch, turning to Quinn. "Look for men who were employed as mechanics, at body shops. Look for those with criminal records – reckless driving, assault."

"Two murders in two weeks?" Prentiss remarked. "That's not much of a cooling-off period."

Hotch raised his eyebrows. "He's not gonna wait for another opportunity to present itself."

"No, he'll create one," said Reid darkly.

0o0

And so he had.

Spencer ran his eyes over the bloodstains coating the door to the parking garage elevator and the damage to the wall on either side. The victim had evidently been trying to evade him, but the doors had closed – according to a very shaken witness – just before he reached them, and just before the unsub's car had slammed into both him and the structure of the elevator.

He'd pulled back and rammed into the poor man several times, from the looks of things.

Spencer took a picture of the battered doors on his phone and sent it to Grace, whose forensic training could be handy at a time like this.

There was one heck of a lot of blood; the air was thick with the iron tang of it.

"Impact nearly cut him in two," Quinn reported. The detective was crouching over the body of the latest victim, lifting the flap of the body bag just enough so they could see his face. "His name is Victor Costella. Podiatrist. Works in the building."

"Male victim," said Prentiss, with an eloquent shrug.

"So much for the vehicular rape theory," Spencer interpreted aloud.

"He ran down from the level above," the detective told them. "Trying to get away."

"The initial collision was up there?" Rossi asked, pointing. "Let's see it."

They walked up the spiral to the next level, where a second cluster of forensic technicians were clustered around the initial impact site, which was a registered parking spot. The victim's name was neatly painted on the wall, so the unsub would have had no trouble at all working out where to lie in wait. Victor Costella's car had been shunted to one side, the rear lights both taken out and the boot pretty much crumpled. But that wasn't the most noticeable thing about it.

"Excuse me, for a second," said Spencer, pulling out his phone and imagining the smirk on Grace's face when she figured out she had been right about the unsub's victimology. "Hey Garcia… Yeah, I need you to look into something."

0o0

Dave peered at the red car, glancing momentarily after Reid, who was suddenly gripped with the kind of mid-case energy that meant the kid was on to something. He let him go; Reid would tell them whatever had lit a fire under his ass when he had whatever confirmation he needed from Garcia

"The unsub must've gotten here early, found a spot to park and then waited," he reasoned, looking around.

"Someone could've seen him," said Prentiss.

"Somebody did." They turned to find Detective Feder stalking over, notebook out. "Talked to an X-ray tech' on the third floor. Noticed a truck when she arrived."

"And he was inside it?" Prentiss asked, surprised.

"Yeah, but she couldn't see in because of the tint."

"So, how did she know he was inside the truck?"

"She said the window was cracked," Feder explained. "He was smoking."

Dave met Prentiss's gaze as she quirked an eyebrow.

"I don't suppose your people found any cigarette butts?" he asked, already moving towards the nearest empty space that would provide a good run up and an excellent vantage point. "What time did the – uh – tech get in?"

"10 a.m.," Feder replied

"Seven hours," Dave mused, spotting some trash at his feet and extracting a pen from his pocket to poke it with. "A proper addict could kill a whole pack."

He frowned, flicking bits of pale orange paper over with the end of the pen. This was familiar – and suggestive.

"Did you ever smoke?" he asked Prentiss.

She didn't answer immediately. "I used to do a lot of things."

_Yeah,_ he thought. _And I bet we know about less than half of them. Still, the past is the past, unless it has a bearing on the present._

"Bet you never did this," he said aloud.

"He field stripped it," remarked Detective Quinn, surprised.

"What is that?" Prentiss asked.

"Something they teach soldiers to avoid leaving traces in enemy territory."

"You squeeze out the filter and then ball up the surrounding paper," Dave explained, remembering the dark, unpleasant days he had done it himself.

"Okay, so our guy could be ex-military," said Prentiss.

"I'll have them check for DNA on this," said Feder, who had grabbed a marker from the forensic techs to make sure they checked the scraps of paper into evidence. "Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll be in the system."

"If he's military, why would he choose a truck as his weapon?" Quinn asked.

"Maybe he drove a tank," Feder quipped, which wasn't perhaps as off-the-mark as he thought it had been.

"That's a good question," said Dave. "Using a vehicle on the open road is one thing, but… this is close quarters."

Prentiss nodded, surveying the damage to the victim's car. "Yeah. A truck is loud, draws attention. Plus, he risked rendering it inoperable."

"Doesn't make any sense," Quinn groused.

"Does to him," Dave explained. "He needs to kill this way – I just don't know why."

0o0

"All of the victims drove red, two-door Coupes," said Spencer, who had had Garcia do some cross-checking.

"Do you think that could be a coincidence?" Quinn asked.

They were back at the Police Department, clustered around the evidence board for a confab'.

"Uh, it's statistically significant," said Spencer.

"So, no," Grace translated.

"We haven't been able to find any other common denominators," JJ said, with a shrug. She nodded at Grace. "You weren't so off-the-mark when you said you don't see people when you're driving, you see cars."

"She shoots, she scores, the crowd goes wild," she said, still gazing at the map. She mimed shooting a basketball into a hoop, then blushed lightly. She badly needed to get her firearms certification back.

Hotch gave her a look that suggested that he also felt she had been inside too long. "If the unsub is targeting people because of their cars, then his initial contact with them would have been on the road."

"I spoke to the families about the victim's daily car travel, how they got to work, the gym," said JJ, beckoning Quinn over to the map.

Grace moved out of the way. She rotated her wrist, feeling the familiar ache in her bones, and tried to massage it out. Mostly she just ended up moving the ache around instead, but the physio insisted a bit of light massage was good for encouraging blood flow, which was good for healing. It was still a little swollen, though most of the bruising had faded now.

Annoyingly, it was developing a bit of a click.

"There's one road all the victims have in common," said Spencer, who had been displaced by Grace's movement.

She felt his knuckles brush her arm and shivered despite the warmth of the day.

"That mean something to you?"

She shot their boss a quizzical look; he was watching Detective Quinn, who was looking deeply perplexed.

"Anyone living outside Bend who commutes towards Eugene uses Route 7," said Quinn, following the line of the road they had indicated with his eyes. "It's the most dangerous section of highway in the state. They call it 'Suicide 7'. There's a bunch of crosses at the side of the road."

"Do the crosses denote accidents?" Grace asked.

"Fatalities," Quinn replied. "Fire Chief put them up to remind people to be careful. There's two lanes, no dividers and limited visibility on the bends."

Spencer quirked an eyebrow. "I'm assuming there's a lot of head-on collisions."

"Either that, or they go off the side," said Quinn, and pointed to area North of the road. "Land drops away pretty steeply."

There was a moment of pensive silence."

"Reid, you mentioned the possibility of a physical limitation," said Hotch thoughtfully. "Something which kept the unsub from killing in a traditional way…"

"Yeah," Spencer replied. "I was talking about impotence, but we've ruled out sexual motivation."

"What if he was involved in a crash," Hotch suggested.

Grace's face settled into a frown. "That would provide a hefty stressor," she said, nodding.

"And could mean he's physically disabled," Spencer finished, following their drift. He glanced at the map. "If it took place on this road, that could explain his fixation with it. You know, if our unsub is disabled, it explains why he uses a truck. It gives him power, mobility…"

He trailed off.

"But?" Grace prompted.

"The idea that he's avenging his own suffering speaks to a victim mentality that's inconsistent with the profile."

"Then maybe it's not about his own suffering," said Hotch.

0o0

*See Moments of Grace – Season Four, Act Three: They Rise Up.


	11. No Rest for the Wicked

**Essential Listening: What the Water Gave Me, by Florence and the Machine**

0o0

"As we speak, this profile and a description of the unsub's truck are being released to state and national media," said Aaron, allowing his gaze to traverse the room. It was full to the brim with cops, detectives, highway patrol officers and even one or two civilian officers who had come in specially, just to hear this profile.

_I just hope it's enough,_ Aaron thought, restively. This guy didn't have much of a cooling off period at all – he was more than likely presently stalking his next victim.

"In addition to what we already know, we believe the unsub is ex-military," said Reid, picking up the thread. "Most likely army or marines."

"We also believe he's physically handicapped," said Prentiss.

"From combat?" Detective Feder asked.

"No, from a traffic collision," Pearce told him.

"An accident that would have occurred along Route 7, where the unsub finds his victims," Prentiss clarified.

"And that has something to do with why he's going after red Coupes?" Detective Quinn asked, tiredly brushing his greying hair out of his face.

"We believe that he holds the driver of a comparable vehicle responsible for his accident," Spencer went on.

Aaron nodded. "This person is the object of his rage, but unable to confront them, he's taking revenge against a surrogate."

"These boxes contain accident reports from a strip of Route 7 between Bend and Eugene," Prentiss told them, waving at a discouraging number of file boxes lined up on the tables in front of them. "There's about five years' worth. We're gonna need everyone you can spare to comb through them."

"We've also compiled a list of local rehabilitation facilities we think the unsub may have gone to to recover," Reid added, indicating the whiteboard behind him. "Use the profile as you canvas these places."

"Remember we're looking for a white male in his early forties, ex-military, who may have sustained serious injury in a car accident within the last five years," Aaron reminded them.

"This unsub will be deeply angry, not only over his own injuries, but likely over the injuries of a loved one who was in the car with them at the time," Pearce expanded. "A partner, a parent, a child – someone whose loss or injuries have taken over the unsub's mind.

"He will no longer be employed – not because of his injuries, but because of his all-consuming need to seek revenge," she continued. "And it's likely that any close relationships will have broken down following the accident. He is consumed by rage. Because of this, it's important that we catch this guy – if possible – when he's not in his vehicle. His truck empowers him to kill, so we're asking you not to approach the suspect vehicle. Call it in and a tactical unit will be sent to your location."

"And if he's hunting – which, I mean, he probably is," mused Prentiss in an undertone, when the assembled law enforcement officers began to disperse or congregate around the table covered in boxes, "then he's just as likely to take out anyone in his way as he is to…"

She made a gesture that they all understood as 'You know'.

They _did_ know. It wouldn't be good.

0o0

The team were hard at work, running down possibilities from the tip line. They had settled around the office with Feder and Quinn among them, a well-organised, practiced machine dedicated to getting the most they could from the information they could. JJ knew without looking who would be doing what.

She pursed her lips, pensive. The man in reception had had the look about him of the seriously haunted, and given the case she knew exactly who ought to deal with that.

Giving Reid – who was running queries between Rossi, Prentiss, Hotch and Quinn – an encouraging smile as they passed one another, JJ met Hotch's gaze.

"Hey, uh – we just got a walk-in," she told him, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. Hotch's gaze immediately flicked to the uncomfortable looking man in the staffroom. "Name's Gil Bonnar."

"What's his story?" Hotch asked.

"It's about the unsub's accident," she told him, knowing this would get his attention. "He says it's his fault."

Glancing at Quinn to let him know to keep working on the stack of files between them, he followed her over to the staffroom, where they introduced themselves. Reid appeared behind them, as if he'd been caught up in their orbit. Bonnar sank unhappily into a chair. He kept clasping and unclasping his hands. There was a lingering whiff of beer-sweat clinging to his clothes.

"Why don't you tell us what you remember?" JJ prompted gently.

Sometimes all you needed to do in an interview was give the other person enough space to talk, and it seemed like that was all Gil Bonnar wanted to do. Probably all he had wanted to do since the accident he claimed to have caused.

"I'd spent all day in Eugene with my mom," he said, distressed. "She'd been sick. I shouldn't've been driving." There was a lot of guilt and self-loathing in his voice, in the way he practically ground the words out between his teeth. "But I just wanted to get home to see my little girl. It was darker than usual. I remember the moon, it was just a sliver."

Just on the edge of her vision, JJ saw Spence's eyes narrow just a fraction; he was probably narrowing down the possible dates for the accident in his mind.

"Right outside the Cascades, my phone started vibrating," Bonnar continued. "But when I went to reach for it," he said, miming the action with a look of horror. "I knocked it off the far side of the seat and it fell down by the door. And I thought – I thought I could reach…"

He reached up and scrubbed at his eyes. JJ came to his rescue: "You took your eyes off the road," she inferred.

"Couldn't've been for more than a few seconds," he confirmed, barely keeping a lid on his grief. "But when I looked back up there were lights and this horn was blaring, and I swerved at the last second – and then I just – kept on going. Without a scratch."

"You'd gone into the oncoming lane?" Hotch asked.

_God,_ thought JJ, _it must have been so easy to do. Like all those Drivers' Ed' videos._

Bonnar gave a shaky nod.

"What happened to the other vehicle?" Reid asked, as gently as he could.

"That's the thing!" he said, tears sliding down his stubbly cheek. "It was in my rear view mirror, and then it was _gone_. It vanished."

"Why didn't you stop?" asked Hotch.

Bonnar gave a sigh. "It didn't seem real."

"You're saying you just… pretended it didn't happen?" JJ asked, unable to mask the pointed tone her voice had taken on.

He gave her a watery, humourless smile. "I guess if you tell yourself something for long enough, you can make anything true."

"Well, you're here now," said Hotch, which was about as much sympathy as he was going to get. It wasn't really his fault, all of this, but still – they had an unsub to catch. "Tell us about the other vehicle."

"It was the truck you're looking for," Bonnar replied at once.

Hotch frowned. "How do you know that?"

Bonnar stared into the middle distance, distraught. "When I saw the news… it all made sense. It's come back for revenge."

Six eyebrows belonging to three experienced field agents flickered minutely upwards at this, but he didn't appear to notice.

"When did the accident occur?" JJ asked, as Spence licked his lip and dropped his gaze to the unopened file in his lap.

"December '07," he replied. "Second Saturday."

Spencer surveyed the list of reports. "Um, we have no accidents reported in December of '07."

Bonnar stared at him, evidently baffled. Whatever he felt about a possibly demonic car returning to seek its revenge, he believed absolutely in what he was telling them. "No… that's not possible…"

He looked very much like his grasp on reality was beginning to slip.

"Maybe you have your dates wrong?" Hotch suggested.

JJ translated this, and the tightness around his eyes, as 'Or none of this is as true as you think it might be'.

"Could've been November," he said, sounding uncertain.

Reid took pity on him. "Memories are kinda like puzzle pieces and it's quite possible that in suppressing this for so long, you might've rearranged things."

The man gave a hollow laugh.

"How long was your mother sick?" Hotch asked.

"Five months," said Bonnar, rubbing his tear-stained cheeks. "She – she died in January. That much I know."

0o0

Emily hung up the phone and went to join Morgan, who was talking to one of the counsellors. They were part of the group sent out to canvas the rehab centres on Reid's list. This one, like the others was so far yielding very little, other than the sense of how easy it would be to end up in a place like this in their line of work, and how difficult it would be to get out again.

The imagination can sometimes be a terrible thing.

"He's ex-military, good with his hands, repairs," Morgan was saying, relaying the profile to the counsellor, who was listening with the patience of a man who knows the agents have yet to grasp how many of the people he saw on a daily basis fit that flimsy description.

"Look," he said, contriving to sound apologetic. "Even with that description you're looking at five year's-worth of patients."

"Well," Emily interrupted, thinking what JJ had told her over the phone. "What if we could narrow it down to a five-month window? Between September '07 and January '08."

The counsellor gave them a look that told them he thought they were wasting his time as well as theirs. "What's this person done, exactly?"

Morgan gave him the stone cold gaze of someone who had seen the autopsy reports. "Exactly? Three murders. And he's not going to stop there."

"Murders?" the counsellor asked, with a look that suggested his mental description of the two agents had gone from 'time wasters' to 'insane'. "You do realise the condition of our patients?"

Morgan – who was losing his – informed him, "A paraplegic can still attack with the right rigging."

The counsellor frowned, looking between the two agents with growing realisation. "Is this about those hit-and-runs?" When they didn't answer he steeled himself. "There's something you should see."

Emily met Morgan's gaze. Clearly, they should have led with that.

He led them into his office and sat behind his desk, rummaging in the filing cabinet for a moment before extracting a file.

"He left us about four months ago," he told them. "He didn't make the kind of progress that we'd hoped for."

_Now that sounded like a euphemism for 'still enraged',_ Emily thought.

"He have trouble getting himself back in shape?" Morgan asked.

"No, no. _Physically_ he made great strides. It was… emotional issues."

"Anger issues?" Emily guessed and the man nodded.

"Did he ever talk about getting even?" Morgan asked.

"Oh, yeah," said the counsellor. "You can look for yourself." He handed Emily the file.

"Ian Coakley," she read aloud, opening it to a series of unsettling drawings of weaponised trucks.

_Oh,_ she thought, raising her eyebrows at the next one, which was particularly violent. _Yes, I have a good feeling about this one._

"We have our patients write or draw daily," the counsellor explained. "All tasks to help strengthen their hands. Ian spent most of his time on those."

Morgan took one of the pictures, scowling at it. "You had to know this guy was disturbed," he pointed out.

The counsellor gave a combination of a nod and a shrug. "It's part of the healing. We encourage this kind of –"

"Murder fantasy," Emily supplied.

"Grief can take on disturbing forms," he admitted, grimacing at the description.

"Red car," she said, flicking through the images; Morgan joined her.

"They're all different, like he couldn't decide," he observed.

"When his memory came back it was… fluid," the counsellor told them.

"So it changed, like his targets," Emily reasoned.

"His mind was trying to find out the truth about what had happened."

0o0

"September 28th, 2007," said Spencer, reading from the file as he settled at their table. "Ian and Sheila Coakley crashed while driving home from Napa Valley. They were going eastbound on Route 7, around midnight. It appeared their car was run off the road, flipped numerous times. No witnesses."

Rossi, who had read the file while the others had returned from their separate missions or had been refuelling in the cafeteria upstairs. "His wife was riding in the passenger seat. She died at the scene."

"That'll be the external grief we profiled," Grace remarked, flicking through the file.

"Coakley survived," said Hotch. "Paramedics indicated a spinal cord injury."

"He fractured his T6 and T7 vertebrae," Rossi elaborated.

"He's paraplegic," said Hotch.

"That's not all," said Spencer, who had got to the bit about patient history. "He's a former Light Wheel Mechanic in the Army National Guard."

"It say anything about a red car?" Detective Quinn asked.

"No," Hotch replied. "Says Coakley suffered memory loss after the accident."

Spencer nodded. "Short-term amnesia is common after a serious accident."

"I think it's safe to say he remembers now," Rossi snarked.

"Or some of it, at least," Grace remarked.

"Do we have an address?" asked Hotch.

"Yeah, Garcia's working on it," said Spencer. He'd had her on mute for the rest of the conversation because something was bugging her today and she was doubly snarky, but he flicked it on now.

"_Okay, the house Coakley and his wife bought was foreclosed on ten months after his accident,"_ she told them.

"Well, there's got to be a paper trail, then," said Spencer, leaning closer to his phone.

"_Yeah, and that trail leads to a land called 'Nowhere'."_ She sighed. _"He cashed some insurance cheques during his stay at Adelman House, but after he left, zilch."_

Hotch frowned. "Any relatives he could be staying with?"

"_No, I tried that, there's no family in the area."_

"Any ex-service buddies?" Grace suggested.

"_Nuh-uh. He was based in Texas."_ The sound of keys being furiously tapped filtered through the speaker. _"My exquisitely educated guess is he's either squatting or sub-letting with cash."_

"What about his truck?" Rossi asked.

"_He owns a '79 Dodge D-100,"_ Garcia reported. _"He got it used, ten years ago."_

"He's had to rebuild it several times now," Rossi reminded her.

"Yeah, and parts for something that old can't be easy to find," Grace agreed, following his train of thought. "Plus he'll need some fairly major equipment to fix the bodywork damage he's inflicting on it, and that stuff is not cheap. There'll be payment records for the delivery at the very least."

"_Oh, I like what you're cooking, agents,"_ the tech goddess said. _"Checking auto suppliers in Bend… Yeah! Rossi and Pearce get fruit cups with lunch! He's having the parts shipped through Syd's Auto, and from there to an address in south-west Bend."_

0o0

The house was empty, which was a major disappointment, and currently in need of some serious door repair. Morgan had found a stack of damaged bumpers in the garage, along with a distinct absence of truck.

"Get all your vehicles off this street and set up a perimeter," Dave barked, and the local officers scrambled to obey the tone of command. "If Coakley comes back this way, we wanna be ready for him."

"Got it." Feder nodded, leading the exodus from the house.

"Let's get to work," he said to Prentiss, though he needn't have. She was already rummaging through the paperwork on Coakley's living room table.

"Rossi," said Morgan, emerging from the garage a second time. "Come on, you wanna see this."

The younger agent pointed at the pile of mangled metalwork to one side of the garage – the result of Coakley's previous murders. "They still have blood on them," he remarked, as the two men pulled on their gloves.

Dave moved to the workbench, where a pile of number plates were stacked haphazardly. "He's been switching plates," he observed. "We should advise the BOLO."

"Hey, Rossi," said Morgan, calling him over. "Look at this." He gave him a handful of black and white photographs, the previous victims immediately recognisable in most of them. "Stalk central. That right there's Shannon Makeley."

"Maria Delgado, jogging," Dave pointed out, flicking through the images. "Victor Costella. They're all here."

Morgan pulled out a picture of a man putting a bicycle in the back of his car. "So, who's this guy?"

Rossi frowned. "You think it's possible there are other victims we don't know about?"

"I don't think so," said Morgan, with a shake of his head. "Garcia woulda found 'em."

"Then I think we've found his next victim." He tapped the picture with his thumb – luckily Coakley had taken a picture where the guy's plate wasn't obscured.

Morgan pulled out his cell. "Garcia, I need you to run a plate, real quick."

0o0

It was a beautiful house in a quiet neighbourhood, and the woman who answered the door clearly had no idea what was about to hit her family.

"Mrs Birk?" Rossi asked, pre-emptively holding up his badge. "FBI. We're looking for your husband."

"Sorry, you just missed him," she said, obviously confused. "Uh… what is this about?"

"We think he may be in danger," Derek explained calmly, watching her eyes go wide in fear.

"Can you reach him on his cell?" Rossi asked, before she could panic.

"No, he's on a ride," she told them, with a little shake of her head. "He doesn't take his phone with him."

"A bike ride?" Morgan guessed.

"Yes," said Mrs Birk. "He's in a club."

"He's on the open road," Rossi realised, voice tightening with concern.

"Do they have a regular route?" Derek asked.

If they could intercept them then maybe, _maybe_, their unsub wouldn't have a shot.


	12. Into Dust

**Essential Listening: Closer Than Most, by Beautiful South**

JJ flashed her ID at the officer guarding the door and stuck her head into various rooms in the rather Spartan little house until she came across Emily, who was rooting through Coakley's drawers in the bedroom.

"Hey," she said, pulling on her gloves. "Figured you could use a hand."

"Thanks," Emily replied, with gratitude. "Have you heard anything from Hotch?"

"Uh, they think they've located Garrett Birk," JJ replied, taking the box Emily passed her. "If they can bring him in, hopefully Coakley has nowhere to go."

"Hmm," said Emily. "He'll go somewhere. Hopefully going through this stuff will help us figure out where."

JJ nodded, opening the box. Inside was the standard mix of random crap that ended up in semi-disorganised moving boxes the world over: a couple of ornaments, a box of jewellery, a framed photograph of a man and a woman (presumably Coakley and his wife), feminine clothing.

"All of his wife's things," she reflected sadly. "He never unpacked them."

The two women looked around at the moving boxes, stacked up and gathering dust.

"He never unpacked anything, as far as I can tell," Emily pointed out.

"What do you think this means?" JJ asked. "Living like this?"

"I think it means he's stuck."

0o0

Grace was attempting not to pace.

The others were all either out on a shout, trying to track down Garett Birk and remove him from danger before Coakley could make him victim number four, or at Coakley's house, trying to work out what his next move might be if they succeeded. It was frustrating as all hell to be left behind, particularly when half her weird little family were chasing down a rage-filled, revenge-fixated road warrior.

There was no way, if he was out on Birk's tail already, that they would be able to talk him down. Even assuming he would be able to hear them inside the truck (Grace assumed Detectives Quinn and Feder had seen fit to equip every car with megaphones, just in case), he was the bitter, vicious kind of deluded. It was unlikely in the extreme that anyone would be able to get through to him, and that didn't bode well for anyone inserting themselves between him and his intended target – which the team were more or less guaranteed to try to do.

She would, too, if she were out there – without a second thought.

Still, knowing that and being able to sit still while the rest of the team were charging towards Suicide 7 were two entirely different things.

She bit the tips of her fingers, listening to various officers calling out information to one another, trying to cover all of the route Birk's cycle group were riding at once.

"_Hotch, we're on Route 26, heading towards the reservoir – I think we're about halfway around the loop. So far no sign of him."_

That was Rossi – and he was with Morgan, Grace thought.

There was a beat of silence, then Hotch (who was out with Quinn) responded: _"Copy that. We're heading southbound on 20. Hopefully we can hit Route 26 before they fly by us."_

Grace ran her bitten fingertip over the map, tracing the two routes. The cyclists could be anywhere – Birk's wife had told them they varied the direction they rode the route.

The radio gave a sort of electronic chirrup indicating that someone had hit the call button on their airwave.

Emily's voice crackled for a moment and then evened out as the signal solidified. _"Hotch, you know how Coakley was driving his wife's car on the night of the accident?_" she asked. _"It was a red Coupe."_

"Oh fuck," Grace murmured. "That's not good."

"_Are you sure?" _Hotch asked, sounding even more tense than before.

"_We have pictures,"_ Emily confirmed.

"_What does it mean?"_ a voice that sounded as if it belonged to Detective Quinn, if he had been buried under a significant amount of distortion, asked.

"_Maybe there was no other car,"_ Emily postulated.

"_What?"_ That was the detective again.

"_Think about it," _Emily explained. _"The make and model of his target car keeps changing."_

"_Like he knows they aren't right,"_ Hotch added.

"_His doctor at the rehab facility called it fluid memory, but what if it was more than that?"_

"_So, if it was a single car accident,"_ said Quinn, trying to follow along.

"_Then it was nobody's fault,"_ Emily concluded. _"He was driving back from Napa Valley that night. That's a long drive."_

Quinn 'hmmed' his agreement. _"Fell asleep at the wheel_._ Wouldn't be the first time,"_ he added, with the quiet sadness of a man who had checked out a number of corresponding scenes.

"_The guilt of that must be overwhelming,"_ Emily continued. _"The truth almost impossible to take."_

"_So, he's projecting blame,"_ Hotch reasoned.

"Which is a level of delusion we're not going to get him to back down from," Grace remarked aloud, every part of her itching to be out on the road with her team – or doing anything, at this point, that might help them.

She felt like an unwanted extra limb.

"_A red Coupe _did_ cause the accident," _Emily summed up. _"And he was driving it."_

Grace started pacing, emitting a kind of audible grimace.

There was relative radio silence for a minute or two, as the cars raced to catch the cyclists and the deluded predator tracking them, then –

"_HOLD ON!"_ Hotch yelled, and over the sounds of pain and screaming metal Grace's heart leapt into her mouth.

Behind her, Spencer – who she hadn't heard come in, snapped his head around. "What was that?"

"Hotch," she said, without turning. "And Quinn. I think they crashed into Coakley."

"Oh God," he exclaimed, dropping his jacket on the desk and joining her in a protracted hover around the radio.

"_Hotch!" _Emily called, from Coakley's house.

Rossi yelled, _"Quinn?"_

"_Are you hurt?" _Quinn's voice sounded a little shocked and groggy – and the radio had clearly taken a hit, given the static, but Hotch didn't answer.

Over the static came the unmistakeable sound of someone gunning an engine.

Grace grabbed Spencer's sleeve, the fingers of her other hand pressed so hard to her mouth that they had gone white.

"Oh _God_," he said again, with a gulp.

"_Can you move?"_ Quinn shouted, with greater urgency.

"_I'm okay,"_ said Hotch, sounding pained.

Grace remembered how to breathe; Spencer's other hand came to rest on hers, which was still gripping his sleeve.

"_Go!"_

Whatever happened next was quieter and indistinct, suggesting that some of the action at least had moved outside of the SUV. All Grace and Spencer could hear was their friend's pained breathing as he fought to extricate himself from whatever the crash had pinned against him (the seatbelt at the very least), leaving them imagining all sorts of horrible things.

"_Detective!"_ he shouted. _"Detective!"_

"Shit," Grace breathed. "Quinn's trying to reason with him."

"He can't break him out of his delusion," said Spencer. "It'll just make things worse."

"Yeah, but Quinn doesn't know that – he's trying to talk him down."

"_It's not gonna help!"_ Hotch shouted.

"Where are Rossi and Morgan?" Spencer asked.

Grace could feel coils of panic curling off him, mingling with her own.

"Route 26, as of five minutes ago," Grace told him, poking the map harder than was probably required. "They should be closing in on Hotch and Quinn's position…"

"They've gone quiet," Spencer observed, his fingers tightening around Grace's. "They're listening."

Emily and JJ had, too – probably as horror-stricken and helpless as Spencer an Grace were.

"And Morgan's driving," said Grace nervously. "Which means they'll get there in half the time we would."

It sounded like Hotch was trying to break out of his side of the SUV – the noise stopped at about the same time as – somewhere near the reservoir – tyres squealed on a hot and lonely road.

Swallowing hard, she couldn't help but flinch as the sound of gunshots carried over the airwave. One – two – three, punctuated by a measured, law enforcement interval. Then the sound of an engine disappearing.

"_Go! Go!" _Hotch shouted – though the sound was small, as though he was pretty far from the radio now.

"_We're on him – we've got him!" _Rossi shouted.

Spencer bit his lip. "God, I wish we could see what was happening."

Grace nodded mutely.

"_Where the hell is he going, Rossi?"_ Morgan asked, seconds later.

"_There's no outlet up here, he's headin' in,"_ the other agent replied.

"The reservoir," Grace guessed. "He's going to do a _Thelma and Louise_."

"_Nah, don't do it man!"_ Morgan cried, and then – another squeal of tires (presumably as Morgan hit the brakes), and finally, silence.

"_He went over,"_ said Rossi, after a short while. _"Requesting an ambulance and a fire-rescue crew to our position."_ There was a beat, then: _"No rush."_

Grace sank into a chair, and so did Spencer, allowing their panic to slowly ebb away into proper relief. It wasn't what you might call an ideal outcome, but not of their team had been too badly hurt – and nor had any members of the public. Birk was safe and Coakley was dead. In some ways, his chosen suicide by car felt unpleasantly inevitable.

There would be paperwork, but there was always paperwork.

She glanced up and found Spencer's gaze resting on her face. He gave her the echo of a smile, which she returned.

Under the table, just for a few minutes while their heartbeats returned to normal, neither let go of the other's hand.

0o0

"I don't know about you, but I haven't had my bell rung like that in a long time," said Quinn, rubbing tired eyes.

The team had spent the rest of the days tidying their copies of the case notes and files away for transport and – those who had been on the road at the time of the incident – variously fending off medical attention and giving statements about the events leading up to Ian Coakley's suicide.

With barely a glance JJ abandoned the box she had been packing and quietly made herself scarce with impressive nonchalance; she had been listening to the radio when Coakley had crashed out.

It wasn't Quinn's fault, though. He hadn't had the training for a situation like that, and Aaron hadn't been in any shape to advise him.

Quinn rattled a bottle of aspirin in Aaron's direction, but he declined. After the paramedics had dressed the knock to his head, Pearce – who was turning into more of a mother hen the longer she spent relegated to the office – had already dumped a pack in his lap and then stood over him until he took them, looking highly amused at his chagrined expression.

"Impressive group you travel with," said the detective.

Aaron smiled. He was not wrong. "They are," he agreed.

"You knew what I said to Coakley was gonna set him off."

Aaron looked at him. It hadn't been said in a recriminating fashion, or with any guilt or anger – just a simple fact, accepted.

"Challenging a delusion like his can have unpredictable consequences," said Aaron, remembering the teenage arsonist he'd once tried to talk down before she could incinerate a lift full of her lab partners.

"Like driving off a cliff," said Quinn ruefully.

Aaron gave a shrug and returned to organising the box on the table. "He made a choice."

"Well, I'm not gonna lose any sleep over it, if it's okay with you," said Quinn, with a half-smile that Aaron returned.

They shook hands.

0o0

Gil Bonnar was waiting for her in the reception area, looking more settled than the last time she had seen him, but still on edge. He had probably seen the news, but it was difficult to find peace with yourself when you believed you were responsible for four deaths and the total destruction of a man's body and mind.

JJ beckoned him over.

"Mr Bonnar?"

He turned, immediately anxious but resigned to whatever punishment the team felt fit to mete out. "I got a message that you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, thanks for coming in." JJ glanced at the file in her hands. "I did some fact-checking. You said the moon was 'just a sliver' that night. The new moon was on November 10th, 2007."

He looked shocked; that tallied with his memories better than the information Reid had found about fatal crashes.

"What else did you find?"

"A man named William Matlock was run off the road that night by a car that drove into his lane."

She handed him the file. He was shaking with horror and anticipation. He took a ragged breath, his eyes scanning over the page she had opened it to.

"No injuries?" he asked, allowing just the slightest hope to creep into his voice and features.

"There was some damage to his car – and you'll be held responsible for fleeing the scene."

"A Volkswagon?" Bonnar said, reading on. "But it was a truck!"

JJ shook her head. "Was it?" Bonnar simply stared at her, confused and distressed, so she continued. "I think you've wanted to tell someone about this for a very long time and this case – that truck – gave you the excuse you needed. Guilt's a powerful thing."

He nodded, swallowing his emotions and trying to keep them locked up tight.

"You didn't hurt anyone, Mr Bonnar," JJ told him kindly.

He closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was crying freely. "Thank you."

0o0

_The human voice can never reach the distance that is covered by the still, small voice of conscience._

_Mahatma Gandhi_

0o0

"Garcia is…" said Penelope miserably, glumly resting her chin on her fist as she stared into the electronic abyss, "contemplating a life of solitude and celibacy."

She sighed.

"Hey!" said Kevin, with a knock on the door.

She made herself find a smile for him. He wasn't, she noted, wearing the suit today. "Hi. Did you get the job?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

_She would be happy for him. She would be happy for him. She would be happy for him. _

_She would._

"Oh – no." He shook his head.

_Oh…_

"I'm sorry," she said, and discovered she meant it – at least for the part of it that meant he was unhappy. "Only a fool would hire somebody over you for that job."

"Oh no, they didn't hire anybody," he said. "The position just…" He made a popping sound with his lips. "Went away."

"Went away?" Penelope asked, puzzled.

"Yeah, apparently there was a security breach," he said, and Penelope began to sweat. "Someone hacked the project database and the whole project was put on hold."

_Crap._

"Wow," she said aloud, trying not to feel too pleased with herself – or give the game away. She was a terrible liar. "All that over a little network hack."

"Yeah," said Kevin. "You can't be too careful. You know how that goes."

"Right," she agreed, taking her seat again and turning back to the computer so he couldn't see the smile on her face. "Well, it's probably a blessing in disguise. I mean, with your delicate stomach, you wouldn't have been able to stand the food in Karachi."

Penelope was just congratulating herself for negotiating that particular conversational hazard, when she felt Kevin's presence directly behind her chair.

"I never told you it was in Karachi," he remarked.

_Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap._

"Didn't you?"

Kevin laughed and took her hands, crouching beside her. "Look, it's okay. I could _not_ have gone without you."

"And I couldn't have gone with you," said Penelope, blinking away tears she had not given herself permission to shed. "This place is my home."

She expected him to be angry with her – he had every right to be. But instead, he just kissed her.

"I know."


	13. Meridian

**Essential Listening: Magic Spell, by This is the Kit**

The bell above the door didn't jingle – partly because the door was open, this being a lovely June morning, and partly because the bell in question was a fairly elaborate wind chime, and the word 'jingle' didn't adequately convey the wide variety of noises it made.

JJ and Garcia led the way, chattering happily about their plans for the weekend (they were intending to meet up with Emily later and have a proper girls' afternoon – which would have been a girls' night, but JJ hadn't been able to find a sitter and Will was working). Grace followed at a more relaxed pace, inhaling the familiar scent of incense, candle smoke and dust that signalled entry into the more esoteric kind of shop.

This one was off a surprisingly reputable back-street in Falmouth, just outside Fredericksburg, Virginia, just down the road from the main campus of the University of Mary Washington. That was the thing about college towns, Alex supposed. They could attract the stranger kinds of people – and establishments – without anyone batting an eye.

She gave the slightly stout man behind the counter a nod of greeting as her friends cheerfully descended on the shelves of crystals along one wall and after a moment, his smile broadened to a grin.

_Ah,_ thought Grace. _The real deal, then. Good to know._

She cast a practiced eye over various large, altar-type candles in several colours, wondering how many of the man's customers noticed that – despite the lack of any kind of air-conditioning equipment – the shop was pleasantly cool, even in the midsummer heat. It was quite a neat working, and she made a note to come back another day, when her friends were otherwise occupied, to see if the man would give her some advice on reworking the one she had cast over her own house.

The range of books on offer were the usual mix of mind-body-spirit, self-help and find-yourself volumes, among slim tomes on magickal herbs and crystals, astrology and numerology. All perfectly sensible and above board; nothing an unsuspecting dabbler might manage to hurt themselves or their intended targets with – above a particularly nasty papercut, at least. Here and there, however, Grace picked out less innocent titles and authors that were more unusual in general, but more familiar to her. These books were bound in more muted colours, with less snappy titles. They didn't need to attract attention in the same way. The people who wanted these books already knew what they were looking for.

"Are ley-lines a real thing?" Garcia asked, peering at the title of the book that Grace's fingers had unconsciously rested upon.

"Depends on what you mean by 'real', I suppose," Grace replied, aware that she was being annoyingly vague and thoroughly enjoying it.

"Hmm," said Garcia, picking up a book on numerology.

"Can I help you, ladies?"

They turned to find the shopkeeper behind them, putting a fresh consignment of incense out on a nearby shelf.

"Um, maybe in a sec – just browsing right now," said Garcia, with the slight air of being caught somewhere she shouldn't be.

Cheeks flushing with colour, she ducked her head and went to read the labels on the pre-made spell-kits.

"And how about you, Mistress?" the shopkeeper asked, in a gentle Canadian accent.

"I'm fine, thank you, good Master," Grace replied, more quietly, not missing the question in the formal term of address.

They smiled at one another.

"I'm Miles," said the man. "You're always welcome at _Atlantis_," he added, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the painted window, emblazoned with the name of the store.

"Thank you," said Grace, and meant it. It was always good to find a weirdo in tune with your own weirdness. "Grace." She shook his hand.

"You let me know if you need anything," he said.

"I will," she said, then glanced at Garcia and JJ. "But maybe on another occasion."

Following her gaze, Miles chuckled and nodded. "Sometimes it's for their protection as much as ours," he reflected, then went to see if JJ needed help picking out a crystal pendant for her mother. "Peridot? Oh, that's a nice, friendly one…"

Grace watched him for a moment, enjoying the feeling of being around someone not unlike herself, then joined Garcia by the spell-kits.

"So, Missy, what are you up to?"

"Me?" Garcia asked, feigning offence. "I'm blameless. Guileless. Unblemished. Innocent."

"Uh-huh," said Grace, a hand on her hip and a grin on her face. "And that's why you're projecting guiltiness and reading the labels on these kits super-hard. Spit it out."

Her friend visibly deflated a couple of inches. "Profilers, God! Okay. Okay, Kevin was up for this job, but he couldn't tell me where for, only that it was an overseas posting and I got scared that we would break up and he asked me to go with me, but I don't want to leave the BAU and I didn't know what to do, so I kind of hacked the NSA and sort of accidentally made the project get shelved."

Grace, whose eyebrows had been moving steadily up her forehead as Garcia's confession tumbled forth, burst out laughing. "Of course you did."

"I didn't mean to sabotage him, I just wanted to know where he would be…" she moaned. "And he's weirdly okay with it, but I feel so bad."

With great effort, Grace pulled herself together and stopped laughing. She couldn't do much about the grin on her face, however, so she slung an arm about Garcia's mildly despondent shoulders.

"I mean, I feel kind of horribly triumphant that he's not going, but I also feel guilty about that." She jabbed Grace in the ribs with an elbow when she snorted, making the bangles on her wrist rattle. "I'm trying here. He had something good and I ruined it."

"And he realised he'd rather have you, anyway." Grace shrugged. "I mean, use this as a learning experience and don't do it again and stuff, but at least you both know you're each the most important person in each other's lives."

Garcia gave her friend a look that said she knew Grace was trying to make her feel better, she didn't actually feel as bad as she should, and she felt rubbish about that. "Maybe," she said, brightening up, "we could use it as an opportunity to get closer."

"Yes," said Grace.

"And actually talk about this stuff, instead of just bottling it up and doing stuff we think the other one will like and overstepping the mark."

"That's the spirit."

"Okay," said Garcia, taking a breath. "I am good, I am zen, I will rebalance this karma."

Grace nodded, trying to suppress the smirk growing on her face; she knew what was coming. She could feel it.

"Now, which of these spells will help Kevin find a promotion? Because I'm not above giving the universe a little nudge in the right direction, and I meant it when I told him they would be crazy to hire someone else over him!"

She shook her head, warm with a feeling of deep affection for and kinship with her weird, crazy friend, and helped her find a 'bring x a promotion' spell that was nine-tenths suggestion, but might actually work.

They were outside in the July heat, moving languidly between pools of molten Virginia sunshine and debating the merits of various cafés when JJ's phone chimed and she made a noise of disgruntlement.

"Urgh, no rest for the wicked, I guess."

"Even wicked witches," said Garcia, and all three women giggled.

And if one of them laughed a little longer and harder than the others, no one noticed.

0o0

Grace stared at the file in front of her, her pleasant mood evaporating into the little hollow pit of horror opening up in the base of her stomach.

The scene was bloody – unusually so, even for them – but that wasn't what had her locking her jaw. A deep frown scored into her forehead, she looked up at Hotch, but he wasn't paying attention. Neither was Spencer.

As JJ cleared her throat, ready to begin her presentation, Grace bit her lip, almost hard enough to make it bleed.

"This is a bad one, guys," said JJ, with a glance at Garcia who had been asked to sit in the briefing this time. "So, I hope you didn't get lunch." She clicked the remote for the smart screen. "Wichita, Kansas. This is Mike Vernon, thirty-seven years old. Managing Director of _So Delicious_, a Wichita based food delivery company."

"Oh, I've heard of that," said Rossi, unexpectedly. "I went through there on my last book tour. They deliver a box of ingredients and a recipe for every day of the week, right? Lazy way to do it."

"I wouldn't mind," said Emily, fairly. "I mean, when do we have time to go grocery shopping?"

"And this was Vernon on Thursday morning, when his cleaning lady found him," JJ continued, and everyone made noises of discreet horror as a fresh image flicked up on the screen.

Except Garcia, who was far more vocal: "Oh my God, Jayj, some warning!" she squeaked, attempting to use her notebook as a shield.

Grace didn't blame her. The crime scene was a _mess_ – there was blood over the floor, up the walls; Grace would be willing to speculate it might be on the ceiling too. It had collected in pools on the man's glass coffee table, in a wine glass on the table, soaking into the sofa. And in the middle of it, the remains of what had been quite a handsome entrepreneur were spread-eagled in what looked like quite a deliberate fashion. He wasn't handsome any more, nor was he recognisably human: his murderer had removed his skin.

"What, all of it?" Grace asked, her mouth falling open.

"Yeah," said JJ bluntly, as Garcia made a gagging noise. "All of it. Head to toe."

Rossi gave a low whistle.

"That kind of procedure would take time," Spencer mused.

"Hmm," said Grace, who wasn't convinced – based on the veritable tidal wave of blood spatter – that it had taken long at all. It looked rather more like it had all happened at once.

Which, of course, in the normal way of things, was impossible.

"So we're looking at someone with medical knowledge," said Morgan. "Do we have the autopsy yet?"

"No," JJ replied. "The ME in Meridian is working on it, but the detective I spoke to told me they're short-handed at the moment – one of the coroners had a heart attack and is off work, recovering."

"We'll need that as soon as possible," said Hotch.

JJ nodded. "I told them."

"What's that around the body?" Spencer asked, flicking through his file to get to the picture that had given Grace pause.

"I thought that was just bad décor," Prentiss remarked.

Obscured by the dark, viscous blood were thick, white lines – they ran across the floor and up part of one wall. What Prentiss had mistaken for an unusually edgy, urban-magic look were an interconnected network of sigils and symbols, painstakingly drawn and precisely placed. Altogether, the whole looked rather like John Dee's demon trap, or the Sigilum Dei, but with different markings, and therefore different purpose.

There was clear intent here; this wasn't your average whacko with an Alchemy Gothic catalogue. Whatever this person had been attempting, they had evidently done their homework. Around the edges, evenly spaced, were the remnants of black candles, melted almost to stumps. They had been extinguished, presumably, by the large quantity of blood that appeared to burst over the room.

It was utterly suggestive and undoubtedly sinister.

"Detective Singh said it looked like something out of _The House of the Devil_, which I watched a clip of after I got off the phone with him, and good lord. He's worried about satanists, and honestly I can kind of see why." She held up her hands towards Rossi. "I know what you're going to say, satanic cults don't exist."

"But lone occultists convinced they owe their power to the devil, do," he allowed. "I'd say that this has more than a flavour of the occult about it."

As one agent, the team turned to look at Grace.

"Hmm," she said again, pursing her lips, but declined to comment further on the subject. "It would be useful to have a less… stained record of those markings. Do you think the detective could have someone draw it?"

"I think if you asked him, he would do just about anything right now," JJ replied. "There are two more victims. Garcia, eyes down," she warned, before clicking the smart remote.

Photographs of two more pleasant looking men appeared: one was grinning, lifting a bicycle in the air like a trophy; the other was blithely executing a complex yoga pose.

"Russell Kirkpatrick, thirty-three, and Brandon Harper, thirty four," she reported. "Both found murdered in the same manner, on Friday morning and yesterday, respectively." The crime scene photos appeared and Grace frowned.

They were exactly the same. It was eerie.

"Both Caucasian," Rossi pointed out. "First victim was African American."

"So, he's not choosing his victims based on their race," said Hotch thoughtfully. "What similarities are their?"

"All male, all between the ages of thirty-three and thirty-seven," Morgan supplied, flicking through the file on the desk in front of him.

"That's a tight age range," Prentiss remarked; Grace nodded. "Zero cooling off period, too."

"The first victim was an entrepreneur," Morgan continued. "The third was a yoga instructor and the third a high school teacher at Metro-Meridian High School. There's no overlap there."

"Hold on, hold on," said Garcia, who had been doing some initial searches on her tablet (not department issue, and therefore technically frowned upon, but nobody was about to call her on it), her notebook still shielding her from the horror on the screen. "Not so fast, Mr Hotshot Agent. It says here our yoga instructor was an entrepreneur, too! He set up the business from scratch – now he has something called the Marigold Wellness Centre, which hosts yoga, Pilates, tai chi, meditation and mindfulness classes. There's also a café with regular live music and book clubs and all the good stuff."

"Yeah, but the high school teacher, Mama?" Morgan asked, sceptically. "What's he got? Teacher of the Year?"

"You jest, don't think I don't know," said Garcia, as several people rolled their eyes. "I just don't think you should dismiss them as different kinds of people," she retorted. "Aren't you people always saying that it only has to make sense to the unsub? Well, something must've made sense to him about them, because that hot mess he made in their living rooms doesn't make a lick of sense to me."

Hotch nodded. "Chase it," he instructed her. "If you have a hunch about the victimology, then we want to hear it, Garcia."

Garcia brightened marginally, enough to risk closing her eyes, lowering the notebook for a few seconds and sticking her tongue out at Morgan, who chuckled.

"What about families?" Emily asked.

"Uh, Kirkpatrick was married, had two young kids," said JJ.

"I hope the kids didn't find him," Rossi reflected, as seven pairs of eyes scrutinised the three flayed corpses.

(And one pair of eyes stayed glued to the tablet on the table, which was far less gory.)

"Yeah," said JJ grimly. "They had just got back from visiting their grandparents in Andover, about a half hour's drive away."

Morgan grimaced. "Damn."

Emily shook her head. "You don't get over that."

"Vernon was divorced," Reid said, absorbing the contents of the file. "No kids, no surviving family except an aunt who lives in Minnesota. Harper had a boyfriend, who they haven't spoken to yet, and lived with his parents."

"Where were they when this happened?" Grace asked, surprised.

"Social club vacation to New York," JJ replied. "They came back Friday morning and – well."

"I was going to say, there's no way I could have slept through that."

"I'm surprised none of our victims' neighbours heard screaming," Emily said.

"Yeah, and there's no real sign of a struggle at the crime scenes," said Hotch, scratching his chin.

"No sign of a struggle?" Garcia gasped. "Have you seen how much blood there was?"

"Yes, but no chairs turned over, nothing broken, nothing out of place," said Emily.

"All three reports say the doors were locked and windows latched at point of discovery," said Spencer, raising an eyebrow.

"In Wichita, in summer?" Rossi pulled a face. "That's gotta make a bad scene worse."

"Yeah, and make the M.E.'s job harder," Morgan agreed. "We thinkin' he drugged them?"

"Had to have," Emily told him. "There's no way someone would just lie there and let the unsub do that to them. That amount of blood, you know they were alive when he took their skin off."

"Oh _God_, Emily!" Garcia cried.

"Sorry."

"Why am I even in here, Hotch?" the technician complained.

"JJ?" Hotch asked, turning to her.

"Both the first two victims' computers were wiped."

Suddenly, everyone sat up a little straighter. That was unusual.

"They haven't checked Harper's yet, but they suspect that will be the same," JJ continued. "I was hoping Garcia could come out with us?"

Hotch nodded. "I think that would be a good idea. Do you have your go bag with you?"

Grace shot Spencer a smile while their friend assured their boss that, in fact, she did, and she would try not to make too many disgusted noises about the crime scene while they were out in the field. Since her last foray into the field in Buffalo, Garcia's exquisitely flamboyant go bag had been a permanent fixture in the bottom drawer of her desk, packed and ready for the next opportunity for the tech to stretch her brightly-stockinged legs. The fact that several people had been flayed alive notwithstanding, Garcia clearly couldn't be more excited.

He fought off a smirk, trying to pretend he was entirely focused on the case. Pleased to see she had elicited the faintest of blushes in her friend, Grace pulled out her phone and jotted a few cryptic notes before texting Sophie to see if she and Max were still up (it being pretty late in the evening in the UK by now), available, and interested in a quick confab before they got their wheels up.


	14. Arcana

**Essential Listening: Tessellate, by alt-J**

Wedged between Emily and the wall and across from Grace in the general tangle around the table on the jet, Spencer watched the latter's expression morph from vaguely tense (likely due to the nature of the case) to openly dubious.

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards, as it often did when she looked as cute as she did right now.

It was, he felt, one of the major advantages to travelling by jet, rather than driving everywhere (not that this was really feasible, given the size of the country they called home) – having to all be crammed up together around a table, or in a double seat.

He had disliked it intensely when he had first joined the BAU, being squashed up against another human for long stretches of time. Other people seemed to be made entirely of too many elbows and knees, and they all seemed to use excessively strong perfume, aftershave or deodorant. The latter impression had faded somewhat, now, as he had acclimated to the members of his team who – if he were honest – weren't actually that strongly scented to start with. It had been eight parts his own imagination and anxiety.

Still, it was uncomfortable, and he had taken every opportunity to take one of the two-seaters to himself, or stretch out on the bench seat (though he still did that, given the jet designer's apparent lack of foresight of agents who were six foot seven without shoes on), just to get as much time as possible with as much space as possible between him and the other members of his team.

But Grace had rather rearranged his priorities on that front. While the rest of the team no longer counted as 'other people' and had firmly taken up residence in the 'family' category, the mad witch of Apple Tree Lane (as he sometimes thought of her) had created a whole series of categories all of her own. These days, the excuse to spend a few hours with her calves and feet all jumbled up with his was a serious perk to the working week.

Not that he spent a great deal of time thinking about that on the outward journeys they made on the jet. That would be highly unprofessional – and besides, his mind was more often caught up in the case than not. But despite his ability to hyper-focus (and frequent inability to turn that off), one of the benefits of being a genius was that he could multitask.

He fought off a smile as his probably-more-than-friend scowled at the map in front of her.

"What?" he asked, nudging her knee with his beneath the table.

She looked up, surprised to have been caught out, and shook her head. "I just don't think town planners in this country have ever heard of curves," she told him, with mild chagrin.

Spencer's smile grew a little bigger. Grace's opinions of American street plans were well known among the team. She had left a country of medieval towns and Victorian cities, full of wiggly little alleys, winding, river-curved country-lanes and bizarre roads formed by odd-shaped parcels of land, and many of America's cities seemed disappointingly hyper-organised to her.

"It's easy to navigate," he teased, aware that she was unable to resist complaining about this particular facet of life in the USA.

"For you, maybe," she said. "Road names should be interesting – have a history to them, not be numbers. It's impersonal."

"It's logical."

"It lacks imagination." He gave her a Look and she rolled her eyes at him. "Panache, then."

"Fewer people get lost," he pointed out. "Everyone knows where they are."

"As long as they can see a street sign," she complained. "If you don't know the city and most of it looks the same, on the same orientation, you're buggered."

"Uh, I think that may be just you," he said, feeling his smile widen at the look of annoyance she shot him.

"I just don't like it," she said, ignoring the barb.

It wasn't like she ever really got lost, anyway.

Spencer shrugged. "If you wanna lay something out and there's nothing big there to start with, a grid pattern makes total sense."

"But it's no _fun_."

He chuckled. "DC is a grid pattern," he pointed out, enjoying the fresh flush of annoyance that rose in her cheeks.

"That's different," Grace protested.

"How?"

"The whole city was built to be a monument," she replied at once. "The point of it was making it wide and open, with good lines of sight to specific places and statues. I mean, I guess they wanted easy navigation in a built-up area, but that's not really what they got."

There was a flash to her periwinkle eyes that led Spencer to suspect she was enjoying their bickering as much as he was, but they couldn't take it too much further in the jet. They had work to do, after all. Deciding that this was a good point to back down, he changed direction.

"Here it's because there was a major population boom after the Second World War," he told her, and she began to look less irrationally irked and more interested. "There was a Boeing plant and they specialised in manufacturing B29 Bombers, and they kept on building planes through the cold war."

"Ah, the irony of war: untold slaughter and misery, but more jobs back home," she remarked, a sour twist to her lovely mouth.

Garcia – who had evidently been eavesdropping, stuck her head over the back of Grace's seat. "Wichita is also the home of Pizza Hut."

"What, really?" Grace asked, craning up at her flamboyant friend.

"Uh-huh! The first pizza hut was an actual hut, right here. The grand-daddy hut, from which all other pizza huts were descended."

Spencer grinned as Grace and Garcia became briefly distracted by what constituted the ideal pizza and whether they might have time to sample the wares of the 'Grand-daddy of all Pizza Huts' while they were in town – assuming it was still there.

He was mildly disappointed when Hotch returned from the kitchenette and JJ took up her seat beside Grace, but there was a bad guy to catch – and this one was particularly bad, from what little they had already seen.

Rapidly, as Prentiss and JJ spread out the crime scene photos, Garcia turned a little green. Spencer guessed she had banished pizza to the deepest recesses of her mind. She maintained her position on the seat behind Grace, though, leaning her tablet on the top of the chair back above her head. Hotch and Morgan took up perches on the bench opposite the table and Rossi executed one of those impossibly nonchalant leans against the side of Emily's seat that were, by this point, essentially his trademark.

The team slipped almost seamlessly back into the assessment that had begun with the debrief in the situation room that morning.

"Three vic's in three days," Rossi remarked. "I'd say it was a spree, except it all seems remarkably controlled."

"There's definitely an element of planning," Prentiss agreed.

"Yeah," said Morgan. "He got in and out of their houses without anyone noticing, he's clearly watchin' them to work out their schedules."

"He must have been stalking them for some time," Spencer, who had thinking about this in between enjoying the enigma that was Grace, pointed out. "There's not enough time between his victims for him to select the next one and stake out their house or office. He has to have picked them in advance."

Across the table, JJ frowned at her notes. "Can we really call it a coincidence that the two victims with families were alone overnight, when he chose to strike?"

"Probably not," said Emily.

"So he knew these nights were his window of opportunity," Hotch concluded. "Reid's right, he must have had these men under observation for some time."

"Which means he's working to a specific set of criteria," said Rossi. "One which he can't deviate from – to the extent that he doesn't care about being caught. He's made sure there won't be any interruptions."

"So, he's highly organised, mission-oriented –" Prentiss began, but Morgan interrupted.

"Hold on, he's working towards a goal, sure, but he's not mission-oriented. These victims aren't from a specific race or religion, they're not criminals, they're not sex workers, they're ordinary," he argued. "There's no house-cleanin' here."

"Goal-oriented, then," Emily amended, with a nod. "He's skilled with his hands."

"He has medical training," JJ added. "Maybe a surgeon, or a medical student."

"Or a veterinarian, or a mortician," Spencer put in.

"He's patient enough to stalk them for long periods, but then he kills in a cluster," Emily continued.

"Flaying someone alive is a long and involved process," Spencer reflected. "It's up close and personal, and it takes time. As a form of torture it's pretty agonising. Speaks pretty strongly to sexual sadism."

"Well, yeah," Rossi argued, "but sexual sadists generally have a longer cooling off period than a day. Killers with that kind of paraphilia tend not to kill in clusters. Their need for release has to recover and they get a lot of their kicks over revisiting and reimagining their crimes."

"Grace?" Hotch said.

Spencer glanced at their boss, and then at Grace. Hotch had evidently been keeping one eye on the pensive expression on her face. Now he thought about it, she had been uncharacteristically quiet since the Pizza Hut conversation had fizzled out. She'd been fairly taciturn in the initial briefing, too.

He frowned, wondering for the first time if there was more than the usual amount of occult in this particular occult case. There were certainly a lot of dribbly candles, which was one of the things on her checklist for: 'don't touch that and call me or something bad will happen'. The shadowy back of a burnt-out RV on a cold night in Madison County, Alabama sprang to mind, after she had dealt with 'the nasty little thing' that was triggering everyone's fight or flight responses. He forgot, sometimes, that some cases might have more than just a phantom in them.

He was recalling eyes that glistened like jet and Lemuel Grey's liminal space when he realised she hadn't answered Hotch at all and was staring down at the crime scene photos like something was just on the tip of her brain. He nudged her foot with his shoe.

Grace looked up, surprised, and surmised from everyone's expressions that she'd been asked to contribute.

"Yeah, the occult element is a bit hard to ignore, isn't it?" she said, taking a breath. "If you're right about him being goal-oriented – and I'm pretty sure you are – there's a strong chance that his goal is occult. I mean, this crime scene screams arcane," she continued, waving a hand over the pictures. "There's clearly a strong ritual aspect here."

"What kind of goal could we be lookin' at?" Morgan asked.

Grace shifted in her seat, rearranging herself as she considered this for a moment. The movement sent pleasant ripples of warmth through Spencer's legs where their limbs touched. Unnoticed, he flexed his toes in appreciation.

"To be honest, your average occult unsub is the same as the rest," Grace admitted. "Power, control, gratification. The only real difference is they believe wholeheartedly that whatever occult thing they're attempting to do will get them what they want. A lot of them kill again and again because it doesn't work and they're convinced they've got the ritual ever so slightly incorrect."

"Well, this guy has certainly gone out of his way to try to do something," Emily reflected, gesturing at the crime scene photos. "I mean, that's a lot of effort, even before you start taking off skin."

Garcia pulled a face and Emily mimed an apology for her benefit.

"Are we thinking the victims are sacrifices, then?" JJ asked.

"I guess, I mean all the paint and dribbly candle nonsense could be a smoke screen to stop us looking further for his real motive," said Grace. "But we have Garcia."

"And I can rule out any connection between the victims that might amount to a non-weird-disgusting-Satanism thing, got it," said the technician, fingers flying over the screen of her tablet. "On it."

"Not Satanism, probably," Grace qualified. "Most Satanists are otherwise normal people who dress a bit goth and are anti-church establishment. Think of them like Christians who only make it to church every second Sunday – believers, but not wholly committed to the realities of a thing." She frowned and scratched her nose, adding – almost to herself – "Besides, it's not like there's anything for them actually to worship."

"You don't believe in Satan?" Morgan asked, surprised.

Reid raised an eyebrow in his direction, but forbore from comment, recalling the time in Florida where he'd put his foot roughly in the middle of Morgan's unexpected spiritual confusion.

"No," Grace said at once, with a level of derision and candour that suggested her mind was elsewhere. "A tin-penny demon at best, with a bad rep'. Most of that's the fault of various churches and states through the centuries. People do love a thing to blame for their sins. No."

"But this guy probably does," said Spencer, quickly, in case anyone felt like probing that statement further.

Grace nodded. "Unless he's particularly convinced of his own infallibility he wouldn't bother with Lucifer anyway. That bad rep' again."

"You think he's trying to, what – call something up?" Emily asked, with incredulity.

"It only has to make sense to our unsub," Spencer reminded her.

"Well, yeah – but if not Lucifer, then… what?"

"Oh, a ghoul, a goblin, a member of the fae, something like that," Grace said, almost dismissively. "Spirits of place can be popular – what we might think of as small gods. It's all a form of invocation and prayer, really, so anything anyone might look up at the stars and ask for help from. Though there are plenty of ways of working with entities instead of demanding service from them, which is much less silly in the long run. There's plenty of literature on lesser demons, too. Some of it even comes with instructions and helpfully annotated diagrams. The whole Faust, flawed bargain deal – you give me wealth, power, knowledge, influence, you take what you want from me in kind, thing."

"So, our guy is probably suffering from the same kind of delusion," said Rossi.

Spencer wouldn't have spotted it if he hadn't been looking for it, but since he was he saw the exact moment Grace's eyes slid fractionally down, to the left, then back up to rest precisely between Hotch and Morgan with an air of naturalness that belied the fact she was trying very hard not to meet anyone's gaze.

"Uh-huh."

"So, this is a kind of summoning circle," said Hotch, his calculating gaze resting wholly on Grace. The slight narrowing of his eyes suggested that he hadn't missed the lie, either.

_She lent him some of her books_, Spencer recalled. _So he may have as much of an idea of this as I do_.

"Ye-es. Yes and no. The shape's wrong – summoning circles are literally just that: a circle. Some of them are fancier than others – a few candles, sigils, something in the middle – but they're all circles. These markings here, where it extends up the wall – that's something else." She pointed at one of the crime scene photos. "And here, under the body – I'm not sure, but I think there's more arcana there. I need to get a clearer look.

"Also, if it's a summoning, the sacrifice is wrong," she went on, with a frown. "I mean, I wouldn't put it out of the realm of imagination that an unskilled practitioner might get something like that incorrect, particularly if it feeds into a paraphilia they didn't know they had, but generally any sacrifice made is either reaped from the summoner by the summonee, given willingly by the summoner, or by another willing participant, or an animal. A whole human under duress is a bit… extra, if I'm honest."

"I can't disagree with you there," JJ remarked, and several people chuckled.

"Demons prefer blood, right?" Rossi – who had had more of a classical Italian catholic upbringing – asked.

"Yeah." Grace nodded. "Higher ranking ones might go for the 'three Hs' – Heads, Hearts and Hands. But this looks more like containment."

"Containment?" Spencer repeated, surprised.

"Of what?" asked Emily. "Is this like an exorcism?"

Grace shrugged. "Maybe. Though again, why flay them? It's so messy. You don't want that circle to be broken, no matter what you're intending for who or whatever is inside it. That's the whole point."

"The circle protects the person doing the working from the entity they've called – or trapped," Spencer recalled, from the books he'd filched from Grace's collection the year before.

"Exactly. Whatever he's trying to do, he needs it inside that circle, and the bloodbath risks that layer of protection and control."

"Okay, so he clearly cares about the ritual aspect," Morgan said thoughtfully. "But not enough to get that aspect right."

"He's arrogant," JJ suggested. "He believes the rules don't apply to him – or at least, not all of them."

"The flaying of the body is more important to him than the circle," said Hotch.

"I'd be interested to know how he achieved such a uniform spray of blood," Spencer mused, turning his attention back to the scene and away from the witch in their midst. "I mean, we're assuming the victims were alive at the time –"

"They'd have to be, with spatter like that," said Emily.

"Right. So how come there are no spurts? Are we saying he somehow took a guy's skin off without nicking anything that would spray? And if that's the case, how did it get up the walls and on the ceiling?"

"I know what you mean," said JJ, paling lightly. "It looks like the victim exploded – except they didn't."

Spencer studied one of the photos for a moment. The remains of the unfortunate high school teacher had been removed, which didn't entirely help make things any clearer, given the veritable lake of blood on the floor.

There were five black, altar-style candles arranged around the circle, each corresponding to the cardinal points of the victim as he had been found (the head, the arms, the legs). Rather conveniently, their spacing and the way he had been laid out was suggestive of a pentagram – which had to be deliberate. Between each candle – and largely obscured by the blood, sigils and symbols that Spencer recognised from various texts on alchemy and medieval magic has been drawn on the floor.

The strange thing – though there honestly wasn't much about this scene that wasn't strange – was that these same symbols appeared to have been marked on the ceiling, too, though not with chalk. Spencer frowned at them for a moment, trying to work out what was bothering him about them, before realising that this was the same picture Grace had been studying so pensively earlier on.

He glanced up at her; she was describing in lurid detail all the things you might want to use blood or skin for in various branches of ritual magic, which was fascinating but ultimately unhelpful. With her tendency to be clandestine, he suspected that she was doing this on purpose.

He would have to ask her about the markings overhead later on.

Dropping his eyes back to the page, he narrowed them. There it was, the thing that was bugging him: "Uh, guys?" he said aloud. "There's a void here."

There was a pause as people re-examined the most recent scene.

"So he was what, standing still when the blood misted?" Prentiss asked, astonished. "Is that even possible?"

"It's like they skinned these guys like a rabbit," Rossi scowled.

"Hopefully the M.E. will have more answers for us," said Hotch, gently nudging them on.

"So the blood may be secondary?" JJ asked.

"Then the object is the skin," Morgan pointed out.

Garcia make a noise of displeasure. "I am going to regret asking this, but what would anyone want with some guy's skin?"

"Well, there's votives, sacrifices, tokens, trophies," said Grace.

"Ed Gein made a suit out of them and wore them," Spencer offered, and Garcia gaped at him in horror.

"_Ew!_"

"There's an old Norse and Icelandic tradition of taking the skin of a deceased friend and making a pair of trousers out of them," Grace added.

"The Necropants*! Yes!" Spencer cried with glee, and Grace flashed him an unexpected grin.

"That's it. There's a recent pair in the Museum of Witchcraft in Iceland," she said. "You were supposed to put a silver coin in the – er – 'coin purse'," she said, with a wicked smile that Spencer had to fight the urge to replicate. Across the table, Morgan pulled a face. "But the magic wouldn't work if you didn't have permission from their previous owner before they died. Or there's –"

"Okay, God! Stop!" Garcia complained.

Grace shrugged. "You asked."

"I don't even know why you people know these things, urgh. _Anyway,_" she added, before they could get started again. "If their computers have been wiped, like you say, then our creepazoid was probably stalking them digitally, like – um," she glanced apologetically at Spencer, who was somewhat confused. "Like Tobias Hankel."

There was a brief moment when it felt like the jet had dropped altitude; his stomach rolled over unexpectedly and all sound went distant. He swallowed. His throat was inordinately dry.

Then the world seemed to come the right way up again and he nodded, managing a tight smile.

Grace moved her leg so her boot was hooked around his ankle, providing him a much-needed anchor. He felt his breathing begin to return to normal.

"Do you think you can recover it?" Hotch asked.

"There are very few things you can do to completely destroy data," said Garcia, preening. "And I am clever enough to know every antidote. I will do my sparkly best."

"Okay, good. You and JJ head to the Police Department," he instructed, and they nodded. "Get us settled in. Garcia, get started on the victim's computers; JJ, talk to the families, see what you can get from them."

There was a moment when Grace met Hotch's eye in a significant, but unobtrusive way.

_She wants a look at that crime scene,_ Spencer thought.

Hotch continued with barely a flicker of acknowledgment. "Reid, Rossi, talk to the M.E., see if you can get them to prioritise these cases." Both men nodded. "Morgan, you and Prentiss go to the first scene. Pearce," he said, meeting her gaze again. "You and I will look over the most recent scene."

"Got you, boss."

0o0

*No, really. You can find them through google, if a pair of trousers made out of human skin (complete with feet and other anatomical parts floats your boat. NSFW, in case you did not guess!


	15. Skin Deep

**Essential Listening: Flesh and Bone, by The Killers**

Derek watched as Reid peered closely at the ghastly remains of Michael Vernon.

It was quite a thing – even with all the horror they dealt with on a regular basis – to see a person who had been so completely peeled, for want of a better word.

"So there's nothin' to indicate restraints?" Derek asked.

"No," said the M.E., shaking her head. "Normally your best indication for ligatures is dermal and epidermal bruising, but we're short one entire dermis, so…"

She waved a hand at the remains on the table.

"Sub-dermal?" Reid asked, unfolding from his crouch.

"There should be some," said Doctor Biddle. "Even with the massive trauma of the removal of the dermal layer, you should see deep bruising in the muscle tissue, but there's nothing."

"C.O.D. I'm guessin' was exsanguination?"

"Shock. The exsanguination didn't help, but his heart gave out."

"Congenital defect?" Morgan asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, he was perfectly healthy. He had epilepsy, but he was low-risk and was taking medication to manage it." She consulted her chart. "I guess if he'd lived a few more minutes it might have triggered an episode, but…"

"But he didn't," Derek finished. "So he wasn't restrained. Was he unconscious?"

"I hate to say it, but I don't think so," said the M.E. and Derek shared a puzzled look with the kid. "There's no evidence of head trauma – and we got his preliminary tox screen back just before you all showed up. Obviously, we'll have to wait for a more comprehensive panel, but the only things in this guy's system were Sodium Valporate and a very low concentration of opiates that I'm putting down to the poppy-seed bagel I found in his stomach contents."

_That can't be right_, Derek thought.

"Wait, so, this guy just lay there and let the unsub flay him alive?" Reid asked, incredulous. He was clearly thinking along the same lines.

"That's about the size of it," said the M.E., with a pained expression.

There was a long moment of silence as the two agents stared at one another, then transferred their gaze back to the coroner, whose expression siggested she was just as baffled and just as disbelieving as they were.

"Are you saying that Michael Vernon submitted himself willingly to this level of torture?" Derek asked, shocked.

"That's your job, not mine," said Doctor Biddle. "I _can_ tell you there's no evidence of resistance or a struggle, and no evidence of head trauma or sedation. Now, I don't know about you, but if that was happening to me, I'd have noped the heck out of there. Again, we'll know more when the more comprehensive screen comes back, but…" She shrugged expansively. "If you find the skin, I may be able to tell you more."

"I wish I knew what he was doin' with it," Derek complained, aggrieved.

Reid frowned. "Well, I mean the skin is an organ. Grace said he could be using it for ritual purposes."

"Heads, hearts, hands and organs." Derek ticked them off on his fingers as the M.E. looked on, intruiged. "You've got votive magic, human sacrifice, totems."

"All of that, yeah," said Reid, "and other, less esoteric purposes. Um… book covers, containers…"

"That freaky lamp the Nazi's made in World War II," the M.E. put in and the kid nodded.

"Yeah."

"But?" Derek prodded.

"I don't know. It's what Pearce said about the circle they found him in – it wasn't for summoning, it was for containment."

"Why do I suddenly feel like the coroner on the Twilight Zone, just before the corpses wake up and eat them?" said Doctor Biddle, and both agents chuckled nervously.

"I mean, this case is clearly some kind of occult," Derek told her. "But the occult is all in people's heads. The guy doing this is delusional and believes what he's doin' is real, but I think you're probably safe from reanimated corpses. Right, Reid?"

He turned to his friend for confirmation, but the expression on the kid's face was one of mildly pained academic dissent , like he didn't quite agree with Derek, but he didn't want to say it out loud. "Huh?" he asked, and Derek watched as he realised – too late – that he had seen the look on his face and tried to make it something more neutral. "Oh, yeah. No zombies this time."

"This time?" asked the coroner, then put up a hand defensively. "I'm not gonna ask." She shook her head again as Derek wondered what had possessed Reid to say _that_.

The kid grimaced, like he wasn't sure himself. He'd been spending too much time around a certain weird Brit.

"I was just thinking about skin," he said. "Uh, I mean, our faces, our bodies – our skin is a big part of our identity. Not just as individuals, but as humans."

He's dehumanisin' them," Derek realised, following Reid's thought process.

"What if that's what he's trying to contain?" the other agent mused. "Literally taking their humanity. Stripping it away…"

All three of them looked at the humanoid form on the trolley.

"If that's his intention, he's succeedin'," Derek mused.

"I've not had time to do more than a preliminary examination of your second victim," said the M.E., moving them on to Russell Kirkpatrick. "But it looks pretty similar, so far."

"Okay, I could imagine _maybe_ one victim volunteerin' to become a sacrifice if they were sufferin' the same delusion," Derek began.

"But there's no evidence for that," Reid interupted.

"But two? Naw, man." He gestured in Reid's direction, acknowledging his point. "There's gotta be somethin' we're not seein' here. No offence."

"None taken," said Doctor Biddle graciously. "I just can't tell you about what isn't there. I can tell you something weird." She paused and took stock of their expressions. "Like, there's no part of this that isn't weird, right? But this is the weirdest, medically speaking." She pointed at the victims. "Neither one of these guys have any scalpel marks on them."

"Wait, what?" Reid asked. "That's impossible."

"I know," said the M.E. "But there's no marks on them anywhere. You can see the trauma around all the capillaries and larger blood vessels, at the point of removal – but there are no cut marks. No evidence of tearing, either. It's like the skin was there one minute and gone the next."

"Is that even possible?" Derek remarked, flabbergasted.

"Until today, I woulda said medically, no," the M.E. replied, sticking her chart on the side. "But here we are."

He shared another speaking look with Reid, who said, "Can you hazard a guess at how it could be done?"

"Outside of the usual methods, no," said the M. E. "There's just too much connective tissue. It doesn't make any sense. I'm not gonna lie, I've seen a lot of ways to go, over the years, but none of them have creeped me out the way this one has."

"Well, thanks," said Derek, and she nodded.

"I'll call you when I'm finished with Kirkpatrick and –" She checked her files. "Harper, when they bring him in. Jeez, this guy is keepin' us busy…"

They left her putting the first victim back into the fridge.

There was just something about this case, Derek mused. The horror level was high, sure, but that was bread and butter. But the M.E. was right, there was more than a little uneasiness about this one.

It was getting under their skin.

"This case, man," Derek griped, as soon as they were in the corridor. "No sedation, no restraints, no earthly way the skin could be removed." He shuddered.

Quite unexpectedly, the interior of a dark, lonely church in the heart of 'Alligator Alley' rose up in his mind, the candles flickering ominously without a breath of wind and a murdered woman posed among the pews. Or, what was left of her, at least. The spectre of weirdness past.

"Believe me, I don't wanna go there," he said aloud, with a frown. "But what if this is another Floyd Feylinn Ferell?"

"The cannibal?" Reid asked, wrenched from his own musings. "God, I hope not."

They were both quiet for a minute. A lot of the team had been traumatised by that particular case, not least because Ferell had opted to ameliorate his guilt at breaking one of humanity's core taboos by adulterating the chilli for the volunteers with the remains of one of the women they were searching for. It would forever be tangled too, for the BAU, with Penelope being shot, an episode Derek would prefer not to dwell upon.

He had been forced to reassess his faith and beliefs several times in that week.

He didn't relish doing it again, now.

"It doesn't make any sense," said Derek. "It's like the guy's skin just vanished into thin air."

"Now you see me, now you don't," said Reid softly, almost to himself.

"You have been spendin' entirely too much time around Pearce," Derek told him, with just enough of a nudge for the kid to know he was joking.

Reid shot him a withering glance, colour blooming across his neck and cheeks, to Derek's absolute delight, but the disconcerted frown stayed in place. "Shut up."

Derek chuckled, present worries shoved back a pace for a moment or two, and slung an arm around his friend's shoulders.

"Oh yeah, nothin' to talk about there," he teased, as Reid squirmed. "Nothin' goin' on at all!"

0o0

Helen Kirkpatrick was a total mess, and JJ didn't blame her.

She was just about holding it together in front of the three young, distraught kids whose grandmother was shepherding around the park across the street, but alone with another adult, it was a whole different story.

For a whole ten minutes, JJ just let her cry. Then she topped up her tea, allowed the woman to pull herself together a little, before beginning a painful line of questioning as gently as she could.

"Did your husband have any enemies?" she asked, as Helen took a shaky sip of her drink.

The other woman shook her head. "No, no. Everyone loved him. He was…" She choked a little on her words. "He was lovely."

"Any problems at work?"

"No, not that I know of," Helen replied. "I mean, it's a school, it's always fairly stressful. You get busy, overworked adults and kids swamped with schoolwork and whatever's going on at home," she went on. "But nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would make someone…"

She shopped and shuddered.

"I can't get that image out of my head," she confessed, in a tight, frightened voice that JJ associated with the deeply traumatised. Cody and Faye aren't sleeping, and Betty-Lou is sleeping, but she's stopped talking. Oh God, what am I going to do?"

A fresh wave of sobs crashed over her.

"When you're done here, I'll have the family liaison come talk to you," JJ assured her, for what it was worth. "They'll put you in touch with grief counsellors."

"Oh, thank you," said Helen, tearfully.

It wasn't much, but right now it was all JJ had to offer – and maybe it was one small thing less to worry about. The P.D. had set them up with a hotel room, which was a mercy at least. JJ didn't like to speculate what the young family might have to go back to when the scene was finally released. She suspected they would move.

_She_ would have to.

"Had Russell's behaviour changed in the last few weeks?" JJ probed.

"No," Helen sniffled. "He was the same old Russell. Excited for his next race, teaching the kids to make tacos…"

JJ nodded, thinking of Will for a moment. She wouldn't know what to do if she lost him.

"We think the man who murdered your husband was watching him for a few weeks before he struck."

Helen looked up in wide-eyed surprise, then frowned. "Of course, that's how they knew we were away. Oh God, imagine if the kids had actually _been_ there…"

"Have you noticed anything out of place?" JJ pressed, before she could become too distracted. "A strange car on the street, someone walking past the house at odd times, unusual phone calls?"

"No, nothing," said Helen, thinking hard. "I'm sorry, if there was something I could tell you, I would."

"I know," JJ assured her. "You're doing great." She thought of Garcia's suspicion about electronic stalking. "Have you had any strange emails, that kind of thing?"

"No, I mean beyond the usually spam and junk mail," Helen replied. "Although, now you mention it…" She grew unusually still. "There was a bizarre pop up a couple of weeks ago. I thought it was for a game or something. It was on the registration page for Russell's next big race – in the Spring. I remember because it shut the whole computer down for a few minutes – I thought I'd lost a bunch of work files, but they were all there when it restarted."

"What do you remember about the pop-up?" JJ asked, making a note.

"It looked like something for one of those match-three games," said Kirkpatrick. "All black and red, with a cartoon wizard in the corner. Is that useful?"

"I think it will be," JJ mused. "I think it will."

0o0

Pearce was largely silent on the drive over to the latest crime scene, and there was something about the particular quality of that silence that drove Aaron to fill it. He wasn't sure why; usually he was the one projecting conversational gaps as an invitation for others to speak – especially in the interrogation room – but Pearce's current silence was accompanied by a sort of thin-lipped stillness that appeared to concentrate the quiet until it achieved a kind of physical presence within the SUV.

Consequently, Aaron was maintaining a one-sided conversation about egg salad sandwiches that neither occupant of the car was paying the slightest bit of attention to.

She hadn't said anything aloud about the unsettling nature of the case, but she didn't really need to. He suspected she was perfectly well aware that he could read her body language and micro-expressions, and they had been broadcasting a situational unease since JJ had first started the briefing that morning. They had a standing agreement that if a case had a more than usually occult nature – especially one that might threaten the team, or other members of law enforcement, or the general public, Pearce would speak to him about it.

He had to trust that she would keep to her end of the bargain, so he hadn't pressed her for details yet. He had half expected her to speak to him in the car, but she didn't – just stared out of the front window of the SUV, not really taking their surroundings in.

Until, that is, they came to within three streets of Brandon Harper's house, when she sat bolt upright, glanced around as if she was trying to locate the source of an irritating noise and cleared her throat.

"I'm going to need a few minutes at the scene," she said, confirming his suspicion that she was relying on his behavioural analysis to know that this case was trouble of the arcane variety.

Aaron looked at her for a moment. "I'll see what we can do," he said, as they pulled up at the end of the street.

The young agent nodded perfunctorily, then pulled out a pair of dark glasses and stuck them on her head, out of the way, before getting out of the car. They stalked in silence to the tape-line, projecting the united front of non-weirdness and authority that being a member of the Bureau demanded.

Flashing his badge at the officer at the tape, Aaron swept up the garden path and into the hall, where he had a quiet word with the officer in charge. After the customary exchange of pleasantries and grimaces that was the hallmark of gruesome cases, she turned to collect her people.

"Come on guys, let's give them ten."

He was conscious, as the team began to carefully filter outside, that more than half of them were relieved to be leaving the scene for a short time. He was also aware that Pearce had remained outside. He glimpsed her out of the kitchen window, carefully pacing the perimeter.

"I gotta say, this one has more'n a few of the guys rattled," the lead officer confided, as the team grimaced their way outside into the sunshine. "It's a total bloodbath – and weird as hell."

Aaron nodded. He could smell the blood, even from out in the hall. There was a distinct iron tang in the air, combined with the sort of lingering rotting fruit stench that began to grow in a warm place where blood was congealing.

"I understand that it's an unsettling set of circumstances," he said, breathing through his mouth as much as possible. "Because of that, we need to keep the exact nature of what happened here as quiet as possible. If the press pick up on it, there could be a panic."

The officer nodded. "I'll make sure my guys keep schtum. They won't hear anything from us."

"Good," said Aaron. "With three murders this close together, some of the media will be driven to greater lengths to get a story, so –"

"I'll make sure no one gets near any of the windows – with or without a camera," she promised, interrupting. "You guys take your time."

She walked out with the measured cop's gate that told him said cop would be happy to put some distance between themselves and the horrors within the Harpers' suburban lounge. Pearce, who had completed her circuit of the garden and drive, nodded politely to the officer who was just leaving and stepped inside. The front door moved to the 'ajar' position, though Aaron wasn't sure if that had been the wind, the officer, or Peace – though the latter had passed by it without touching it.

She stopped in front of him and looked up expectantly.

"I'm staying," he informed her, and she nodded again.

"Yeah, I figured," she said, with a quirk of her mouth. She pulled on a pair of gloves, then a pair of hazmat-friendly forensic booties over her shoes. "Don't touch anything with your bare hands – preferably nothing at all, if you can help it."

Aaron nodded and pulled out his own pair of gloves and booties, following her through into the lounge.

"Jeez Louise," she said, and Aaron didn't blame her. "It's like something out of a Penny Dreadful.

He gave a low whistle.

Both agents stood on the threshold for a moment, just taking the scene in.

It was not dissimilar to the previous two murders: blood dripped from every conceivable surface. It was smeared over the TV, the spines of books, frames containing (presumably; it was quite thick) family photographs. Droplets of it had collected on the veins and drip-tips of the peace lily on the table in the corner.

The couch had been upended (neatly) at one end of the room, the coffee table stacked on the armchair in front of it.

The unsub had wanted to clear as much space as he could for the 'main event': the large circle on the floor, extending again, with a kind of occult annex, up one wall. The sigils there appeared to have burnt straight through the paisley wallpaper.

"Acid?" he murmured aloud.

Pearce pulled a face and said, "Probably not, this time," from which Aaron inferred 'Under normal circumstances, yes.'

Five, large, black candles had burned down to stumps, leaving little waxy voids in the pool of blood. The body in the centre had recently been removed, but there was no void beneath where it had laid.

Unsurprising, given the brutality involved in peeling someone's skin off.

"This is one sick unsub," said Aaron, quietly.

"Yes." Pearce sighed, moved carefully into the room along the path the technicians had designated as 'safe' and peered at the symbols under where the body had been. "Hmm," she said, after a moment, and took a picture with her cell phone.

"Hmm?" Aaron asked, unable to resist.

"That one means balance," she said, pointing to one of the three large markings that the body had lately obscured. "That one is spirit and that one is soul."

"Meaning?"

"Dunno. Hence the 'hmm'," she said, a little shortly. "Means something – just not sure what yet."

He accepted that. "Is there any way that this is an unsub suffering from a delusion?" he asked, expecting a negative answer given her proximity response in the car.

Pearce looked back at him along her shoulder and for a moment he caught a glimpse of the young, arrogant Detective Inspector she had been in London as an expression that said 'I am dealing with children' flashed across her features. She hid it again swiftly, but that didn't change the fact it had been there. "No. I'm surprised you can't feel it – the place fairly reeks of magic."

Aaron frowned. There _was_ a strange atmosphere to the house, but he had assumed that this was more to do with the undoubtedly violent death one of the inhabitants had suffered than anything else.

_That was the trouble with Pearce_, he thought. _Knowing her makes you doubt everything you think you're sure of._

"I… I'm not sure," he offered and she nodded, understanding.

"Don't worry. If I wasn't as weird as I am, I wouldn't know what to make of it either," she said. "Think of it as… as the taste of snow in the air – or the pressure change you get before a storm. You get a sort of shift in the atmosphere with powerful magic, and that can get left behind, like an echo. Well, I felt that when we were five minutes away."

"So, this is a powerful –" Aaron paused, aware that he didn't quite know the right terminology. "Warlock?"

"'Warlock' means 'traitor'," she replied conversationally, returning her attention to the gore-soaked circle at the centre of the room. "Witch hunters invented it because they thought only women were weak, licentious and sinful enough to enjoy congress with the Devil. Institutionalised, sexist bollocks, the lot of it. The word you're looking for is 'practitioner'," she added, possibly taking pity on him. "It's genderless and covers basically every kind of magic user. Although in this case, 'warlock' might actually be more appropriate," she added, in an angry undertone.

It had been a while since Aaron had felt so very out of his depth – professionally, at least. Pearce, by contrast, was more in her element than he had ever seen her; though there was a brittle edge to her stark manner that worried him a little.

He tried again: "Our unsub is a powerful practitioner."

She snorted derisively. "In terms of oomph, yes, but this guy is all flash and no knickers." She gestured to the all-encompassing blood-spray. "There's no finesse. It's clumsy and undeniably brutal, but it's all over the place. Half these sigils are wrong for basically any circle, the candles are placed incorrectly and –" She grimaced, putting her head to one side, trying to think of an analogy he might understand. "He's reaching for it and letting it go all at once, like – like a fireworks display with no timing that just explodes and sets fire to the nearest houses. Base, hack magic at best."

She pulled another face.

"I'm being a total snob, but this guy is clearly an arsehole. It's arrogant and inelegant. No class at all."

Aaron thought that this last comment was something of an understatement, but he forbore from comment.

Clearly angry, Pearce shook her head to clear it, then closed her eyes. She opened them again with a sharp intake of breath.

"Oh _fuck_," she whispered. "That's…" She snapped her jaw shut, too furious to form sentences.

She met Aaron's gaze and he took off his glove. "Show me."

"You don't want to see this," she said, lips pressed into a thin, white line. "You don't want to _know_ this."

Aaron was ninety percent sure that this was true, but even so. He knew exactly which of Pearce's professional buttons he needed to push to get a result. "Will it help us understand this unsub?"

For a moment, he thought that Pearce would refuse outright, but then she scowled at him. "Alright," she conceded unhappily. "But _don't_ scream. I don't want to explain to a bunch of uniforms why we're holding hands in the middle of a crime scene. You know Garcia would get wind of it, and then there'd be a new bloody betting pool."

"I'll do my best," he joked drily, but it was half-hearted at best.

He had seen some of the things Pearce considered part of her everyday work, and whatever she had witnessed here had clearly shaken loose the bossy DI that dwelled at her core. That didn't bode well for anyone's sanity.

Aaron took her hand and held his breath, as if he were about to leap into a swimming pool. What with the change in pressure, it felt like he had. His ears popped, then –

The last time he had ordered Pearce to show him what she had seen, the sound of the victim's dislocated, disembodied sobs had focussed only slowly, creeping into his consciousness with the gradual, steady certainty of a dripping tap.

This was very different.

A wave of nausea and half-remembered pain washed over him; there was the confused impression of agony and distress, so powerful it nearly bent him double. Instinctively, his other hand covered the handle of his gun. But it wasn't that which had made every muscle in his body tense, ready to sprint out of there as fast as his legs could carry him. No.

Brendan Harper was _screaming_.

It wasn't just noise; it transcended sound, passing straight through it to awake something primal and visceral. It tore through Aaron's mind like a jack-knife, dragging through his consciousness, over and over.

Appalled, Aaron opened his eyes and met Grace's – which was a mistake for a start, since they were presently like twin black holes. He watched, mesmerised, as a thin trickle of blood ran from her nose down to her lip. She wiped it away with a tissue in her free hand, and with a horrible amazement, Aaron realised she was being careful not to contaminate the scene.

She jerked her chin towards something behind him.

It took all of Aaron's willpower to turn and look, and what he saw rooted him to the floor.

Caught between the blood stains on the floor and the sigils burnt into the ceiling was the figure of a man. Dark and translucent, like a kind of animated shadow, head thrown back into a perpetual, silent scream. Like the frame of a film in a jammed projection machine, flickering back and forth in constant, agitated motion. Trapped in the centre of the room, above the body had left behind, was an echo of the essence of Brandon Harper, thrashing this way and that in unimaginable torment, twisting and writhing like smoke.


	16. London Calling

**Essential Listening: The Fantasy, by 30 Seconds to Mars**

Grace took point, largely because Hotch was white as a sheet, and led the way as the team were let back into the house. She moved them through the rooms, forcing herself to focus on the rest of the house, but there wasn't much to see – in terms of the occult, anyway.

Brendan Harper had led a blameless existence, based on early indications. He had been a bit of an eco-warrior and heavily into the hipster scene, based on the contents of his room. JJ had told them he had moved back home to care for his parents, and you could see that sort of awkward combination of their things and his throughout the house: a yoga mat leaning against a stack of history magazines; eco-friendly washing powder next to the bleach in the utility room; vegan leather boots between pairs of comfy loafers and an ancient umbrella.

Grace ran her eyes sadly over the accoutrements of the everyday. When Harper's parents were finally let back into the home they had lived in all their married lives, it would be these things that would break their hearts, over and over again. Maybe they'd ask someone else to pack it all up for them. She wouldn't have been able to deal with it. There was so much blood in the living room that it was soaked into the plaster.

She sighed and pulled on dark glasses – just in time; they walked out through the front door at the same moment that the police liaison was leading Ian and Cora Harper – pale and shaken and devastated – across the lawn of the neighbour who had been looking after them over to their car.

The head technician joined them, following their gaze. "Harper's partner was out of town," she told Hotch, as Grace surreptitiously brushed more blood from the corner of her nose. "He's got them a hotel room. God, I would hate to have to deal with something like this." A pained expression crossed her face. "My son's nineteen. I'm gonna have to call him tonight, just to make sure he's okay."

Hotch grunted his agreement, evidently thinking about Jack. Grace looked away. There were no phones for wherever Michael was.

The heart-broken couple were ushered past them.

"Do you think he suffered?" asked Cora, who was pale and trembling, but her voice was strong. She jutted her chin out, ready for the worst.

The liaison, who had been briefed, but wasn't cruel, reassured her, "Oh no, I shouldn't think so. It was probably very quick. He won't have felt a thing."

The old woman nodded, helping her husband – rendered mute through shock and grief – into the car.

Grace started towards the SUV, refusing to meet the mother's eyes as she passed.

Brendan Harper had felt all of it. He was feeling it still.

"We'll get him," she promised, under her breath. "And I'll do something for your boy."

The image of Harper's agonised spirit followed them back to the car, which they sat in in silence. Hotch didn't even speak when she took his keys and got in, nor when they pulled up in the car park. He got out of the SUV and headed into the Police Department. Grace didn't take it personally; it had been the kind of thing you need a bit of time to fit in your head.

Instead, she made herself marginally more comfortable in the driver's seat and pulled out her phone. She checked the pocket watch her father had given her; it wasn't yet too late in the day to ring her old office. Most of them would have gone home by now (or should have – they were more likely in the pub or one of the archives, catching the kind of overtime that came with the territory and destroyed relationships), but she knew at least one person who would still be in.

DCI Lightfoot answered on the third ring. Despite the situation, Grace couldn't help but smile at the gruff voice at the other end of the line.

"Hello Guv," she said, with an unexpected rush of warmth. It had been too damn long.

"Bloody hellfire," he exclaimed, and in the cinema of her mind she saw him putting his fountain pen (who even uses a fountain pen anymore?). "Alice said you'd ring today."

"Did she?" Grace said, surprised. "She's not gone prescient on us, has she?"

The Guv laughed. "No, she was up all night talking to your Garcia. She said it sounded like the case would've been one of ours if it was over here."

"She's not wrong, to be fair," said Grace. "It's a bit of a fucker, if I'm honest."

"Tell me."

So, she did. When she was finished there were a few moments of contemplative silence.

"You're definitely dealing with a practitioner," said Lightfoot. "And a right bastard."

"Yes," said Grace. "It's going to be a job keeping him from hurting any officers here."

"And your team."

She made a noise of agreement. "That might be a little easier. I mean, they don't let things go, and we all charge in inadvisably at times, but my boss knows about this stuff now, so I can warn him to let me go in first, and there's another colleague I can trust to keep people out of harm's way if it comes to it."

"How did that go?" Lightfoot asked. "Can't imagine folks in the FBI taking what we do particularly seriously."

"You could say that about the average copper, too," she reasoned. "Besides, it was more of an in-at-the-deep-end thing."

"And they're both okay with that?"

"Surprisingly so," she said. "It was a bit of relief, to be honest. It's hard pretending to be someone you're not."

"Yes," said Lightfoot. "That's not something you were ever really good at, as I recall."

It was meant in jest and she took it as such. "Well, I've had a lot of practice now," she said, with a quirk of her lips that he couldn't see, but probably knew was there.

They talked for a while about possible methods of restraint and skin removal, then moved onto the crux of the matter, as far as Grace was concerned. "He must be intending to keep or consume their essence," she said. "Whatever they mean to him."

"Yes, I think that's fairly likely."

"Can you hazard a guess at the type of containment I should be looking for?"

There was the faint sound of DCI Lightfoot rubbing a hand over the five-o'clock-shadow on his chin. "I'd say you'll probably be able to feel it before you see it, which ought to help. Anything with that much anger and pain in it should stand out, no matter how many spells he's piled on to muffle it."

"I figured," she agreed. "Does it have to be specifically a container, like a jar or something? Or can it be anything symbolic?"

"More likely the former," said Lightfoot. "But from your description of the way this killer operates, he sounds like the kind of bloke who would meticulously create something bespoke, with lots of ridiculous frilly bits he doesn't need. Not a 'cunning man', to use the old parlance, but someone who believes absolutely that he is."

"Or get someone else to make for him," said Grace, thinking of the sloppiness of the magic. "He's a total hack at casting. I wasn't at the crime scene too long, but I can still feel the residue on me." She pulled a face. She could still taste it, along with the blood. "I feel like he's the type to believe he's first rate, half-ass everything that doesn't look fancy, then pay other people to make stuff work and claim their success as his own."

"Definitely something ornate, then. Maybe something out of that catalogue you always reference."

The ghost of a smile lighted on Grace's lips. "Alchemy Gothic. Don't knock it, Guv. I've got some great stuff from there. And honestly, who uses a catalogue these days? It's all online."

"I wouldn't know," he replied and she chuckled.

"No. I mean the technology used dates to later than the 1940s."

"None of that lip, now," said her former boss, but she could tell he didn't really mind. "You'll probably just have to break it, but I'll have a poke around the library later for you, let you know what I find. I'd be curious to know what methods he's used. When you collar him, let me know."

"Will do. Do you want a drawing of the circles, when I get them?" she asked, accepting the change of direction without hesitation. "JJ asked the local detective to have someone record them so I can compare them. See if anything more jumps out at me."

"That would be useful. I'm not heading home tonight, anyway. Going to kip in your old flat."

Grace grimaced in sympathy. "Long case?"

"More like a mountain of paperwork."

"Oh, well then," she scoffed. "I have limited sympathy for you. You would put it off until Armageddon if the rest of the Met let you."

"Most of it is tedious claptrap," said Lightfoot, who was one of the few people Grace had met who could get away with saying 'claptrap' and maintaining their credibility.

"And how would we cross-check information if the information stays in a mouldy file box under someone's desk?" she countered, entering into the familiar argument with a slight sense of déjà vu. "There are so many serial killers worldwide who would have been caught earlier if everyone had access to the same data and the resources to check it all properly."

There was a fond sort of pause. "I miss your operational stickleriness," said Lightfoot, after a moment.

"That's not a word."

"You're sticking your tongue out at me, aren't you?"

"No," said Grace, who had been. "I miss you too, Guv. We'll have to have a proper catch-up soon."

"You can give me a ring when you wrap this one up. I'll book time in my calendar. We'll do remote coffee."

"Yeah right," she scoffed. "That toxic concoction you drink isn't coffee, and even if it was I wouldn't hazard it. I'll ring you. Might give the others a bell, too. Send them my love, yeah?"

"Listen, though Grace," he said, which she knew meant 'yes, but this is important, too'. "It sounds like you've got a particularly tricky bugger on your hands. Be careful. I heard about Georgia."

Grace looked down at her boots, flexing her wrist. It made a loud click.

"It happens to the best of us," he said, much more gently.

"Yeah, well," she said, forcing her breathing to remain even. "I know. I'm good. I've got a good support network here – and another one where you are, if I need them. I'm back at work, so I'm not rattling around the house alone. Alice has been chatting with me online when I can't sleep."

"Yes, she told me," said Lightfoot. "She says you got her through her exams."

"Well, at least some good has come out of it," said Grace, in an over-bright voice. "Sorry Guv, I've got to go. There's going to be a briefing."

He was probably aware of the white lie, but he didn't let on. "Stay safe, all the same. I don't want to have to come out there and sort this bastard out. I'd have to find my passport, for a start."

With these words ringing in her ears, Grace hung up and let her head drop back against the head rest. She closed her eyes, breathing in the mix of seat polish, stale sweat and car wax that pervaded every FBI pool car. It was easier, generally, to stave off and quiet the howling tempest of emotions that took over when she thought about Georgia at work, but sometimes the idea of being in a room full of people (or in front of a room full of people) was just as bad.

On top of the headache that was forming behind her right eye (not as bad as it could be, since she hadn't spent too much time in-between), it was a bit much. Even with the time-crunch of a goal-oriented serial killer, she would be no help to anyone without taking a step back.

She spent a few minutes running through the breathing exercises the psychiatrist had given her, and by the time Emily knocked on the window – looking vaguely worried in that 'I'm not worried at all, but you were recently abducted, and we all know what happened to Reid' kind of way the rest of the team had perfected – she was feeling a good deal more centred.

"You okay?" Emily asked, as Grace opened the door.

"Yeah, sorry – bit of a headache," said Grace, who was a great believer in delivering part-truths. "The scene was pretty full-on."

Emily grimaced in sympathy. "Hotch doesn't look great, and it takes a lot to shake him. You need an aspirin?"

"No, thanks though." She made a bit of a production of glancing in the mirror, so that Emily wouldn't notice if her eyes were still weird (they weren't), before sliding out and following her friend inside.

When they were deep within the building proper, a large man with delicate features looked up and came towards them, several file folders tucked under his arm and a cup of what looked like nuclear-grade coffee.

"I don't normally drink it this strong," he said, without preamble and noting the direction of Grace's glance. "But I've been awake for about three days."

He looked like a man who had aged several years in that time, as well. From the cobweb patterning of the echoes of smiles, Grace surmised that this was a generally cheerful man, rendered grim by a series of murders that would stagger even the most stoic. There was a hard set to his jaw that she suspected weren't usually there and dark shadows under his eyes.

"Detective, this is SSA Grace Pearce," said Emily, introducing her. "This is Detective Guneet Singh."

"Hello," said Singh, juggling the files and the coffee so he could shake hands. "I'd say I'm pleased to meet you, but honestly, if not meeting you meant we didn't have this murderer, I'd be quite happy."

Grace chuckled, taking no offence. "Agreed."

"You're the agent that requested sketches, right?"

"That's me," she said, as Emily departed in the direction of the kitchenette.

"I had an officer with a strong stomach draw the symbols out," he said, leading her to a meeting room that had been given over to the BAU, and where several members of the team were presently constructing their murder board or going through the scant, but rapidly accumulating paperwork. "I can't make head nor tail of it," he said, with frustration. "I can tell it's occult, don't get me wrong, but other than that… These murders – this level of brutality – it's got everyone on edge," he admitted, glancing back towards the office full of admin and law enforcement. "And a police force on edge is not a good thing."

"You got that right," said Rossi, following his gaze. "We'll need to be careful how this is handled – and how it goes out to the press."

"JJ is all over it," said Morgan, though he too looked rather pensive.

They could all remember the negative effects of law enforcement being on the edge.

Grace 'hmmed' her agreement, spreading the diagrams out on the table. In doing so, she leant more weight on her wrist than she intended and hissed softly at the pain. She felt a hand rest briefly on the small of her back.

"They're almost exactly the same," said Spencer, leaning over her shoulder with impressive nonchalance.

She gave him a sidelong look that communicated tolerance, gratitude and mild amusement. "Yes, the circles seem to be standard – well, standard to him, anyway."

"You actually know what this is?" Detective Singh asked, surprised.

Grace nodded, gesturing to the circles. "These marks represent the planets; that's a calendar symbol for the time of the year. These two represent the sun and the moon." She pointed to each symbol in turn as Singh, Reid and Rossi followed along. "It's a fairly orthodox working circle of the modern Euro-American system of organised magic. This one and this one both represent traditionally male strength or power. There should be a feminine one in balance with them…" She frowned, checking each circle in turn. "And they're not there. Curious."

"Well, that speaks to his mind set," Rossi mused. "And reflects his victimology."

"Again, they're not true circles, since they have extensions," she mused.

"These central sigils are different," Spencer pointed out, as Grace privately drew some conclusions from the arrangement of the circles. "There's a different one each time."

"Yes," said Grace, taking her phone out and snapping some pictures. "I have a few old colleagues in London who might have a more precise idea of what they represent."

"What's your gut feeling?" Hotch asked.

Grace looked up; she hadn't heard him, Emily or Garcia come in. He still looked rather harrowed, but was covering it better than he had in the SUV.

She looked back at the symbols, pushing air out between her teeth speculatively. "It's not summoning or exorcism. They have distinct arrangements that look quite different. If I didn't know better I would say he was trying to trap something."

"Like the essence of a person?" said Hotch. It was almost a deadpan.

Somehow, she managed not to meet his gaze. "Maybe. The central symbols could be something to do with the individual – but I can't really say more than that. I wasn't really up on this particular flavour of casting," she admitting, staunchly banishing all thoughts of the officer who had been, back in London. "Lightfoot will know, and if he doesn't, there's an archive and the odd officer looking to get out of filling in paperwork."

"So – let me see if I have this right," said Guneet Singh. "He's trying to trap the person he's murdering?"

"More or less."

"And that's why he takes the skin?"

"Most serial killers keep body parts as trophies," Morgan mused. "Dahmer, Nilson – though in his case it was the whole corpse, and unlike Dahmer, he didn't process what he kept."

"Ed Gein's museum of post mortem arts and crafts was about keeping his mother with him and making his human skin suit," Emily added.

Garcia gagged. "I'm going to get a soda, and when I come back, you all better tone the squick down," she announced, abandoning the room with speed.

"In Vietnam, it was skulls, teeth, long bones, ribs, mummified hands – anything that could be easily prepared, mailed or decorated," said Rossi, who had actually been there and presumably witnessed his comrades using enemy skulls as candleholders. "Mostly as souvenirs, or for bragging rights."

"He could believe that this ritual imbues the skin with power," suggested Spencer. "There are numerous examples of the taking of enemy body parts to make amulets and talismans to protect the wearers, or give them great strength. There's an element of that in all ancient cultures."

"And some more modern tribes continued with abandon until the mid-twentieth century," Morgan put in.

Grace made a face. "Technically most indigenous people who head hunted only did so for ritual purposes or during warfare. It wasn't until the Europeans showed up and monetised the whole thing for souvenirs, and to prove how advanced we were compared to these 'savages' that the whole thing got entirely out of hand. And now that's how we see them, when we manufactured the whole situation." She saw the look on Hotch's face. "Right, yeah. Not relevant. Sorry. My dad had a mate at the Pitt Rivers Museum who was really invested in their collection of shrunken heads."

"None of this explains why the victims just laid down and let them do this," said Emily, gazing at the board. "Assuming the tox' screens come back negative."

"Or how the skin was removed without leaving tool marks," Morgan grumbled.

Briefly, Grace met Spencer's glance.

'_When you have removed the impossible',_ she thought. _But then, I know a lot more things are possible than people generally suppose._

"Is it safe?" Garcia asked, sticking her head around the door. "Um, Detective? JJ – uh – I mean – Agent Jareau was hoping you'd go over her media plan with her when you're finished here."

"Right," he said, picking up his untouched coffee. "Whatever you need to get handle on this guy, you just let me know."

"Alright," said Hotch, as the detective left the temporary situation room. "We need to know everything about these victims. Garcia, I want to see anywhere and everywhere their lives may have intersected."

"Gotcha," she said, setting herself up in one corner of the room. To Grace's amusement, she propped a troll that must have made its way into her go-bag on the back portion of her laptop, where it could cheer her up as she worked. "And I'm still working my magic on the hard drives, but so far they have been unswayed by my myriad charms. I'll let you know."

Hotch nodded, tapping the stack of freshly copied crimes scene photos, plans and forms. "Let's get to work."


	17. Which Witch

Essential Listening: Black Magic Woman, by VCTRY

Garcia made a noise of intense annoyance and then stood up, which made the rest of the team (who were busy tearing apart the scene information, building a murder map, deep delving on the victims and drafting a press conference statement) startle from their various activities and look up, expectantly.

"What's up, babygirl?" Morgan asked.

"Okay, you all know that I am a computing sorceress of the highest standing and that I don't give up easily, and that I will work and work until I find every possible angle, and then chase that angle until it dies and I kill it and I pick it up somewhere else and I work my magic and I get you the answers you need." She took a huge breath. "Well, you better believe it when I say that the first two hard drives are dead as doornails."

"The data is completely gone?" Emily asked. "You can't get anything off it?"

"Totally. Zip. Nada. Someone ran a full government wipe on those things," she said, visibly frustrated. "They're basically just decorative bricks, right now."

There was a collective groan.

"That's definitely a forensic counter-measure," said Spencer. "There's gotta be something on there that he doesn't want us to see."

"Right," said Garcia, fervently. "I'm thinking if he's hiding something on the hard drives he must be using them to stalk these poor people, right?"

"I think that's a reasonable assumption," said Rossi.

Garcia nodded. "JJ, tell them the wizard thing."

Spencer frowned, sharing a brief look with Grace.

"Helen Kirkpatrick, the wife of the second victim, said the home computer shut down a couple of days before when a pop up for a game came up," JJ said, checking her notes. "I told Garcia as soon as I got out of the interview. She said it was black and red, with a cartoon wizard."

"There's another reference to the occult," Emily pointed out. "What was the ad for?"

"She said it looked like some match-three game," JJ told them. "Apparently it was on the registration site for her husband's next big race."

"That's interesting," said Spencer. "If this is our guy, was he fishing for anyone on that race, or targeting it specifically to Kirkpatrick?"

"I don't think we'll be able to confirm that until we know more about the victimology, and how he picks them," said Hotch.

"So, I'll put a pin in that," said Garcia, making a note. "I mean, if he has access to their computers he can monitor their emails, their calendars – their bank accounts, even, if they do online banking."

"I think we can assume this guy is good with IT," Emily remarked. "And all of this takes planning."

Rossi nodded. "Highly organised, highly controlled scene – until the flaying ascpect."

"What about Brendan Harper's computer?" Morgan asked.

"Oh, there's no point even trying to connect to it," she said. "It's totally fried. There's no wipe, even, it's kinda like whatever he did to it made the power burn out. It's kinda melty. I sent it back to the forensics lab."

"_Melted?_" Rossi gasped.

JJ's mouth fell open. "Oh my God."

"What could even do that?" said Morgan.

"That's so weird," said Spencer carefully, his eyes immediately going straight to Grace, whose eyebrow momentarily shot skywards, before quickly being replaced by her professional poker face.

She glanced in his direction, then towards Hotch, who was also watching her expression, then gave the slightest of nods.

Garcia, having reeled off all the ways a power surge could be generated, gave a huff. "I don't even know. What I _do_ know, is if you guys find an intact hard drive that still has anything on it, you better get it to me ASAP."

"Was there anything on the parents' computer?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah, that hard drive is fine – and they had a second hard drive as a back-up, but that was wall-to-wall family photos and videos. I asked Detective Singh to have forensics assign a couple of interns to watch them all, but honestly I think that's a dead end." She sighed, compulsively picking up her notebook, since she didn't have her keyboard in front of her. "But I went through the parents' hard drive with a fine tooth comb while my recovery algorithms were coming to literally nothing, and I can report that they are a perfectly average seventy-plus couple. They play bridge with friends. They go to the doctors a lot, for standard old-man, old-lady ailments. Harper moved in because Ian had an accident and broke his knee, and they needed a little more help around the house. It's all so normal, and given what happened this morning, _so_ depressing."

"What have you got on the victims?" Hotch asked, moving her along.

"They're all pretty normal, tax paying, law abiding people," she told them. "The first victim, Michael Vernon has a big online presence, with his recipe box company. He does podcasts and Youtube videos on eating healthily and starting your own business. He had epilepsy, um, he'd just moved to that apartment three months before. He's wealthy, but he's not flinging it around, or anything. He goes to the gym three times a week, his bank account records the occasional comedy gig or local concert. No crossover with these other guys, except the way he was killed."

"Russell Kirkpatrick?" Rossi asked.

"Oh, he was an all-round great dad," she reported sorrowfully. "Involved in the PTA, went to his kids' soccer games, school plays, whatever. He and his wife, Helen, were happily married, for nine years. They met in college in Wisconsin and moved here because of her work."

"Helen Kirkpatrick couldn't think of anyone who would want to hurt her husband," JJ added.

"Yeah, I spoke to the principal at her school," said Emily. "He told me nobody had a bad word to say about Russell."

"He won an award for being an innovative teacher, three years ago," said Garcia. "He does, however, have one slim, slightly sketchy connection with Brendan Harper, the third victim." She paused for breath while everyone pricked up their ears. "It's tenuous, so brace yourselves. So, Helen Kirkpatrick's niece goes to the same roller derby team – and I love their name, the Duelling Disco Divas – that Cora Harper's step-sister's eldest daughter captains."

There was a brief silence.

"Like I said," Garcia continued. "It's super tenuous. I'm running background checks on all the families of the roller derby team kids and parents and the people who run it and the staff at the rink, and so on – but, like, it's roller derby. I mean, how likely is it that this team is the reason the murderer is targeting people's random second-cousins?"

"We've seen weirder," Rossi observed.

Hotch nodded. "Keep it on the board, but let's not chase it too hard unless we find another link to the team."

Garcia nodded. Rossi, looking like he was thoroughly enjoying the opportunity to write 'Duelling Disco Divas' on the murder board.

"Brandon Harper was super healthy and super spiritual, which we already knew," Garcia went on. "His yoga and meditation biz is reasonably healthy, even despite the stupid economy right now. He got a grant to expand the property he's in to include a vegetarian café, which his boyfriend, Eddy Rosen was going to run. His smartphone history – and this depressed the hell out of me, you guys – suggests he was going to ask Eddy to marry him. He had a bunch of things lined up for a big, glorious proposal at Halloween."

"Man after my own heart," said Grace, who had thus far been quiet.

"Right?" Garcia Grimaced. "He has a DUI from college, but otherwise he's squeaky clean. The others are two. No, oh wait – I have perjured my own sweet, luscious self – Michael Vernon got a parking ticket, five years ago. I hate this unsub, you guys – there's literally nothing that makes these people victim-worthy."

"They lead low-risk lives," said Rossi. "They don't upset people, they're almost universally loved."

"I'd say they were all Joe Average guys," Morgan reflected.

"Yes and no," said Garcia, thoughtfully. "I mean, they're nice, normal dudes, for sure. But, like, they all have one thing that they stand out for – like one aspect of life they're super successful at."

"Like the teacher of the year thing?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah, and there are tons of articles on Brendan Harper, he's sort of a spiritual lifestyle guru."

Spencer frowned. "Online?"

"Yeah," said Garcia, then narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"Well, so far they're consistently low-profile in real life, but high-profile online," he said. "JJ, you said something about Kirkpatrick racing?"

"Yeah, he was an elite cyclist." JJ nodded. "She said he was up for the Olympic team in college, but decided not to go for it because they had plans to travel the world together instead – which they did."

"And Michael Vernon had a strong presence on Youtube?"

"Yeah, and the healthy eating podcast thing he does was regularly in the top ten on the foodie podcast chart on iTunes," said Garcia. "And here's a thing that makes me hate people: since his murder was announced in the media, his ratings have exploded."

"Urgh," said JJ, as Emily rolled her eyes.

"And Brandon Harper had a bunch of articles on him on the internet…"

"So he's choosing them based on their online profiles," said Morgan.

"Maybe a little more than that," said Spencer, following the thread of his thoughts through.

"What are you getting at, Reid?" Hotch asked.

"All the things they're online promoting or being recognised for – cycling, healthy eating, entrepreneurship, spirituality, yoga – they're all things someone might look at if they were trying to improve themselves."

"Huh," said Rossi. "So this guy maybe has low esteem?"

"Nnnn," said Grace, making a face. "I mean, the scene screams rage, and I see where you're going, but from an occult point of view, this whole thing is deeply flamboyant. I mean, maybe he's in furious denial about it, but the ritual elements suggest hard-core arrogance."

"You often get both in people who are privately intensely anxious, but it presents as exuberance," Emily pointed out. "Add in narcissism and a feeling that your life is somehow incomplete?"

"It's like a ticking time-bomb of toxic masculinity," said Hotch. "All these men are successful – he's not. That's why they're becoming his victims."

"Um, sorry Garcia," said Spencer, with a wince in her direction. "But this brings us back to trophy body parts – plenty of ancient cultures took pieces of their enemies in the belief they would gain aspects of their strength, prowess, courage, wisdom. So, if this guy _is_ searching for ways to improve himself, what if – what if he's choosing victims with a high profile in the arena he's spending time in, with specific attributes that he aspires to?"

"That's impossible. And disgusting. Yack," said Garcia. "Though I do appreciate the warning."

"It only has to make sense to him, babygirl," said Morgan.

"And didn't you say the circle and the occult symbols were for containment?" JJ asked.

Grace nodded thoughtfully, that little crease between her eyebrows deepened a little further. "Hmm."

Spencer's eyebrows quirked upwards. From Grace, a 'hmm' usually meant 'I have a sort of a theory and I'm not going to tell you just yet, because I will sound like a crazy person and we have stuff to do'.

"So, if taking 'attributes' is his goal, why is he killing so fast?" Morgan asked.

"And," Rossi added, "are there going to be more victims, or has he completed his 'quest'?"

"Oh, I think there are going to be more," said Grace, darkly. "Hotch, can I have a word?

_Bingo_, thought Spencer, as they left the office.

0o0

Aaron led her outside and into the parking lot of the Police Department. Quiet spaces to have a conversation were at a premium, and he had a shrewd suspicion he didn't want any of the local officers to overhear this particular conversation. He gestured at the SUV.

"So," he said, when they were both inside. "What do I need to know?"

A humourless smile flashed across the young agent's face. "How much do you want to know?"

Aaron spent a moment gazing out of the front window, the image of the most recent horror in the cavalcade of depravity that this job (plus supernatural weirdness) embodied had thrown up. Brendan Harper's twisting, screaming spirit was something that he suspected would never leave him.

And yet…

He didn't like to think what this guy might be able to do if he let someone go in unprepared.

"Tell me all of it."

There was a slight downwards dip to her mouth, but she nodded. "Okay, so…" She took a moment to gather her thoughts. "You know how we get all these cases where everyone is screaming about the occult – maybe they read into all those satanism scares in the eighties that Rossi debunked, or whatever – but it turns out it's just some guy with a heavy metal poster and a couple of candles? Well, this is the real deal. You already know what happened to Brendan Harper's spirit, soul – whatever."

He nodded and gestured for her to continue.

"I think the team are right about choosing attributes, and I think Spencer might be right on the money with the self-help aspect. Maybe he's trying to make himself into the ideal version of himself. Kind of like Ed Gein's woman-suit, but in spirit form."

"He's using the circle to strip and contain them," Aaron surmised.

"Yes. Catching souls like lightning in a bottle. It's likely he's keeping their essences or spirits, or some part of them in an amulet or talisman. This will be stashed somewhere in his house – probably in some kind of horrifyingly cliché secret compartment. And," she added, a very dark expression on her face. "You and I know that part of these victims are entirely conscious."

Aaron sighed. "Yes, I would say so. Is there anything we can do for them?"

"I think so, but I'm going to need free reign in the house or with the evidence, which could be tricky to arrange."

"We'll make it happen."

"Good. Thank you for trusting me on that."

"After what I saw earlier?" He shook his head. "Why do you think there will be more victims?"

"Magical numbers are fairly standard: three, five, seven, twelve, fourteen," she listed, counting them off on her hand. "If Prentiss is right about the goal-orientation, and I think she is, we can say he's working to a timetable, right?"

"Right," he said, nodding.

"And one of the consistent symbols in the circles is calendrical, suggesting that the date is important," she went on.

"So, there's something about this time of year. Maybe a loss, or a trigger?"

She nodded. "Well, also it's the summer solstice in four days' time, which would make it seven days since the first murder."

"And you think you he's aiming to murder seven people in total, in time for the summer solstice."

"Yes. The sloppiness of his workings – because they're beautiful and intricate, but they're shonkily put together – suggests he has a sort of grasp of what he's doing, but I don't think he has the patience to research it properly," she told him. "Litha, in the European tradition, represents the battle between the Oak King and the Holly King – both aspects of the Horned God, who is a fertility deity. Bear with me," she added, glancing at his expression. "Unlike Beltane, in May, which is about fire and female fertility, Litha is associated with male virility and dominance of one aspect over the other."

"The Oak King and the Holly King," Aaron echoed, beginning to see what she was getting at.

"Yes. This is the time of year when the winter gods begin to hold sway; in the past, these gods were thought of as the 'darker' aspects. Where the Oak King is all about wisdom, fertility, new life, and all that jazz, the Holly King is a natural avatar for the death of the year, so he can be associated with death, dying, the unconquerable cold. Some modern witches call the Holly King 'The Dark Lord'."

"So, our unsub is creating himself anew in the model of an all-powerful god of death?" he asked and was relieved when she shook her head.

"Well, more like he's planning to use the power of the newly dominant winter god to cement the binding of these new attributes to himself." She rubbed a hand over her face in frustration. "I mean, it's a basic and inaccurate version of the major parts of the festival – it's far more complex and far less fairy-tale than that – but it's the kind of thing someone with this level of arrogance might believe. Plus everything else he's done is singularly inelegant."

"Alright, we'll work it into the profile."

"I think, based on the coroner's evidence, the lack of tool marks, and the speed indicated by the blood spatter, I can say fairly definitively that the flaying was done using magic."

Hotch frowned. "Is that a possibility?"

"Oh, yeah," she replied, with unnerving certainty. "In close, personal terms, you can do pretty much anything if you put your mind to it. For the most part, people's imaginations and scientific or esoteric knowledge limits what they believe they can do – and people get all caught up and tangled with the whole codification and organised, higher magic stuff, but the reality is almost anything is possible. That's the difference between people like me and Simon."

Aaron frowned.

"Who's Simon?"

It was like flicking a switch. All the colour, all the blood drained from her face. Even her arms suddenly looked pale. She swallowed, looked one inch to the right of his eyes – as she did when she was withholding information – and said, "No one. It doesn't matter."

Aaron narrowed his eyes, a little taken aback that the force of her response. He filed the name away in case he needed it in future (and if he ever came across the redacted parts of her personnel files from London). She was _very_ cagey about her past – and he didn't need to know everything about his agents' personal lives to help them work effectively.

"What else?"

"I think I should give the profile," said Grace, looking intensely relieved at this change of topic. "This guy is someone we can't afford to get things wrong about, and I don't want the others to take it in slightly the wrong direction because they have no concept of magic being real."

He nodded slowly. "Okay. Can you make it sound like the unsub is deluded and believes he's a – a practitioner, rather that –"

"Rather than saying, 'Hey you guys, we have a crazy wizard here, do not approach? Yeah, I think that's probably wise." She nodded. "We'll work the angle that it's a persona he's taken on. Incidentally – and I realise I can't give you orders," she continued, and though the whiteness around her mouth was still there, there was something steely in the way she was speaking. "But I should be the only one to approach this guy. He's powerful and arrogant, and he will relish the opportunity to show off by murdering members of law enforcement and the FBI in the most painful way possible. We cannot give him that opportunity."

"Agreed. Although," he said, motioning to her wrist, "you're still not signed off, so I can't let you go after him, because I can't give you back your gun."

Grace gave him a grim smile that looked strangely unreal, like it was someone else piloting her face, and said, "_I_ don't need one."


	18. Top Hats and Leather Jackets

**Essential Listening: Magic Pie, by Oasis**

"So, do you think we should give the public the profile?" Detective Singh asked.

"I think if we give them too much it might cause a panic," Rossi cautioned. "We don't have enough specific information yet, and given the nature of the crimes –"

"Gotta say, I was concerned about that," said Singh. "The department is on a knife edge and the media have got wind that something big is going down."

"That's why we need to get ahead of it," said JJ. "They're already reporting that there have been a series of murders, and one or two of them are beginning to put the serial killer angle together. So, we confirm the rumours that there is a serial killer operating in the city at this time, and immediately add that our team is here, working alongside local law enforcement. People will still be scared, but as long as no one is being scapegoated, things should stay fairly calm."

"Has the occult angle leaked?" Morgan asked.

"No," said Singh at once. "I was absolutely clear about that. The small town next to the one I grew up in had a murder that looked vaguely occult – couple candles, black table cloth – and before you know it a bunch of goth kids from two towns over got firebombed and kicked half-to death. Trust me, the last thing I want is for this to get out of hand."

"Good," said JJ. "I'll take what parts of the profile seem helpful for the public to hear and write that into the statement for the press conference."

"Okay," said Detective Singh. "I'll make sure everyone is briefed for that."

"Hey," said Emily, as a grim-faced Hotch came back in, Grace a little way behind him, wearing an expression that JJ would have described as very carefully managed.

She frowned, wondering what had just gone down for Grace to be avoiding everyone's gaze like that.

"Reid's almost done with the geographic –" Emily began, but Hotch interrupted.

"We're ready to give the profile."

"Are we?" Morgan asked, as Rossi's eyebrows shot skywards.

"Detective Singh, could you gather your men, please?" Hotch continued, as if he hadn't heard a word.

Singh eyed Hotch's expression, then those of the other agents in the room, and then nodded. "Alright. Give me ten minutes."

"Hotch?" Morgan asked, fixing him with a stare as Detective Singh left the room.

"Pearce is going to give the profile," said Hotch, to JJ's surprise.

"What?" Morgan asked.

JJ shared a long, puzzled glance with Emily, as Rossi shot Hotch a puzzled look and Spence narrowed his eyes. Garcia's eyes were as wide as dinner plates, watching the exchange.

"This is Pearce's area – she's going to take this one," said Hotch, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Sure," said Morgan, sounding confused and a little annoyed. "Let's do that."

"Oh-kay," said Spencer, sounding like he'd worked quite hard not to make it sound like a question.

JJ watched for a moment as he tried to catch Grace's eye; she was studiously avoiding everyone's faces, but for less than a second they flicked sideways and then up, meeting his gaze, then dropped back to the floor.

Across the room, Rossi was doing that thing where he half-read his team-mates' minds, looking from Hotch to Pearce and back again. Morgan crossed his arms, really more perplexed than annoyed, especially – JJ suspected – because he had seen Pearce's current expression. Whoever's idea it was for her to run the profile, she didn't look like she was happy about it.

There was an interval of uncomfortable eyeballing and file shuffling, then Hotch left to speak to Detective Singh, Rossi slipping out after him.

Spencer started loudly explaining his preliminary geographic profile, apparently hoping to forestall any arguments, and Grace transferred her intense gaze from the floor to the board. Garcia hid herself behind her laptop, typing so hard the troll on top of it wobbled with the impact. Emily scooted around the table, ostensibly to pick up an autopsy report, and dipped her head closer to JJ's.

"What was that about?" she asked, in an undertone.

JJ shrugged. "I don't know, it's kinda weird."

"Okay, Pearce – what've you got to tell us?" Morgan needled, leaning mildly into her personal space. "Let's hear your insight."

JJ watched as Grace turned the blankest, most baleful and somehow most intense expression she had ever seen on her friend's face on Morgan, who took what looked like an unconscious step backwards. There was a weird moment, when it seemed to JJ that there was one heck of a lot Grace wasn't saying, but then the ghost of a smile flickered across her face and it passed.

0o0

Emily leaned against the back wall of the room, along with most of the rest of the team, feeling very weird about not being up at the front.

_Possibly not as weird as Grace feels, being up there on her own,_ she thought,_ judging by the way her shoulders are up by her ears._

"Alright, folks," said Detective Singh. "Button up and lend an ear."

He nodded at Hotch, who nodded at Grace, who cleared her throat.

"We are looking for a male between the ages of twenty-eight and forty, based on the victimology and methodology. This kind of plan requires a large amount of careful planning and a sophisticated murder kit, suggesting an unsub who is more mature, however there are also highly disorganised aspects of the crime, suggesting a younger unsub. Also, he will be middle class, probably a professional. Likely also Caucasian, based on the nature of the crime, which reflects a European-American tradition of ritual magic. The symbols, occult accoutrements and working circle suggest someone who is deeply entrenched within this tradition."

Was its Emily's imagination, or had Grace's eyes flicked over to meet Spencer's? Beside her, Spencer crossed his arms, shifting his weight, as if he had seen it too. Out of the corner of her eye, Emily saw his frown deepen a little.

"We believe that this unsub is operating under the delusion that he is a wizard."

Emily felt her mouth fall open. She stared at Grace, then at Hotch, whose expression was still impassive, like he had been expecting this. There was a brief silence as the members of law enforcement in the room took this in, then several people laughed.

Grace ignored them.

"Feeling powerless in his everyday life, this unsub has retreated into a fantasy where he has limitless power," she went on, and the titters died down a touch. "He will have – until recently – lived at home with a controlling, successful older male: a parent, an uncle, a grandparent, a brother, a godparent – whose expectations he was unable to meet. It is likely that this person has recently passed away, or the unsub has been forced to move out. This sudden change in circumstances and lack of external control will be the trigger for these crimes. This man is not able to function as part of a team. He will not have a steady job."

"We believe this man is suffering from a variety of Borderline Personality Disorder," said Hotch as Emily raised her eyebrows again. "He will have suffered a traumatic event in his childhood. He will suffer from emotional instability, disturbed patterns of thinking and perception, impulsive behaviour and because of this will experience intense but unstable relationships with others. We do not believe he will currently be in a relationship; rather, he will have a series of failed relationships.

"One aspect of Borderline Personality Disorder can be a persistently unstable self-image, which is playing into his delusion," Hotch added, and there was something careful about the way he was phrasing things, too. "I should point out that not everyone with BPD suffers from delusions on this scale or becomes violent. Rather, it is the combination of this disorder with other factors and – we believe – a build-up of acute stress that has provided fuel for this dissociative identity crisis."

"We also know this guy is a narcissist," Grace continued, and Emily found herself nodding at this in agreement. "Because of this, we suspect that he is likely to have started up and run into the ground a series of failed businesses. He will be intensely resentful about this. Narcissists have a lack of empathy, self-absorption, arrogance and egomania. This unsub believes that the whole world should revolve around him and is perpetually astonished that it doesn't. This further amplifies his rage and resentment with people he perceives as being somehow more successful than himself – like our victims.

"Every bad decision this man makes will be blamed on someone else," she continued. "Every failed interpersonal relationship, every poor business decision – he will see all of it as someone else's fault, as if other people are deliberately impeding his progress in life. This is where the narcissism and Borderline Personality Disorder bleed together. This puts him within the so-called 'Cluster B' of dramatic-erratic personality disorders."

"Along with the classic aspects of narcissism," Hotch said, picking up the thread. "Narcissistic Personality Disorder is characterised by an inflated sense of self-importance, the belief that they are special and can only be understood by other special or high-status people, require excessive admiration from the people in their life – otherwise they become bitter and enraged, deep envy of others and the assumption that others are envious of them and a preoccupation with fantasies of success, power, brilliance, beauty or ideal love."

"This resentment of others and the inability to process these emotions is what has led to the peculiar level of violence observed in this case," said Grace. "Yes?"

Emily looked around, craning to see above the heads of the crowd and spotted an officer near the front with their hand up.

"The – uh – method of killing," he said, almost hesitantly. "Are you thinking a butcher, or a vet, or a medically trained person, or something like that?"

"Because of the lack of tool marks on the bodies, it is impossible to say at this time," Hotch replied, as Grace pressed her lips together, suggesting that she had wanted to say something else entirely. "However, it is unlikely that our unsub – if he began a course as rigorous as medical or veterinary training – would complete it. His emotional instability, coupled with his deep rage and sense of entitlement would make it very difficult for him to cope with academic rigour."

"Similarly, although the persona he has crafted for himself is one of a knowledgeable and learned magic practitioner, he does not have the patience to commit to a proper study of his chosen area," said Grace. "This is reflected in various aspects of the occult symbology at the crime scene, and the fact that he allowed the blood to compromise the circle. He thinks of himself as the finest sorcerer who ever lived, but he's a total amateur – and it shows in his vast inelegance, like an angry teenager showing off his new magic tricks."

She paused, possibly aware that she had lost over half of the room. "Um, think of it like this: it's like he wants to be lauded for building a really good car from scratch, but his superiority complex won't allow him to complete a mechanics or engineering course, take advice from anyone or even finish reading more than a couple of pages of a manual or text book. So, he buys all the components mostly assembled, puts it together and gets half the bolts in the wrong places." There were chuckles throughout the room; the officers were back on the same page as Grace. "He can't wait to show it off to everyone, but it remains flawed – and when he figures that out he will insist that he was sold poorly made parts.

"Now, this guy has invested a lot of time and energy into this other reality – in which he is a powerful wizard –"

More slightly disbelieving laughter; Grace looked deadly serious, however.

"– And he believes in it entirely," Hotch finished. "There is some evidence that he may have been using a computer programme to stalk his victims, so we believe he has an IT background."

"So, we're looking for a total nerd?" someone asked, to general amusement.

"Yes, but don't let that fool you," Grace responded. "He will have the same attitude to his IT skills as his magic: that he's better than everybody, but they're too stupid to notice. The same will be true of law enforcement, which means he will underestimate us – he's trying too hard to be clever, which means he will ultimately make mistakes during the commission of his crimes.

"Especially because he's on a spree, right?" another officer asked.

Hotch shook his head at her. "This unsub is not a spree killer; the intervals between murders are too regular and the crime scenes too controlled. There is also the stalking element. Instead, this unsub is goal-oriented, meaning he has a self-imposed timescale to complete his perceived task."

"We believe that he is trying to collect aspects of successful men in the area," said Hotch. "He is convinced that in doing so he will overcome the obstacles in his life and also achieve success."

"The European-American magical traditions favour particular numbers as being more or less magical," said Grace. "Threes, sevens, twelves, and so on. Our unsub began killing three days ago and four days from now it will be midsummer – the summer solstice. Therefore, we are expecting four more victims."

_Who's we?_ thought Emily, as a murmur rose around the room. It wasn't that it didn't make sense – she couldn't fault the logic of anything her colleagues had said – it was just so unusual not to have discussed it beforehand.

She frowned, trying to fathom the micro-expressions of either of her two co-workers. Generally, Grace was the easier to read of the two, but she appeared to be working hard to keep anything readable in check. Giving a profile was a lot like performance art – you had to make the officers you were talking to believe you, or they would never trust you enough to manage the investigation in the manner required to catch the unsub.

_Maybe I'll corner her after_, she decided.

Emily glanced at Hotch. She was unlikely to get anything out of him; Rossi would have far better luck there.

"He will take great care over his appearance both in his normal life and in his other life," Grace was saying. With the smallest of winces – that Emily wouldn't have spotted at all if she didn't know her as well as she did – she continued: "If we catch him at a scene he will be wearing a long, dark leather or velvet coat – maybe even a top hat – and will be carrying a cane or staff."

Several people laughed, but Grace ignored them.

"This this guy is flamboyant and theatrical in his kills, and likely also in the way he seeks to present this persona. If he does currently have a job (which won't be the one he wants), he'll be on leave right now because his schedule to complete his goal – the reason he's killing these people in this way, at this time – will be taking up all his time. It's likely he planned it all in advance and has actually booked the time off instead of just not showing up. These kills are long and involved, he's probably exhausted."

"This individual is extremely dangerous," Hotch told them. "If you encounter him, do not approach him and try to get members of the public away from him."

"What's he gonna do?" asked an older, more grizzled officer. "Put out a magic wand."

Grace gave the man a tolerant, but tight-lipped smile. "No. He will favour a staff – which is essentially a long, heavy piece of wood or metal." Some of the laughter faded. "Remember, this is a person who has already flayed three people alive, and as someone with an obvious interest in alchemy – as attested by the symbology at the crime scene – he probably has access to some seriously nasty chemicals, some of which may be on his person."

There was a rather more serious silence as Grace let this information sink in.

"Do not underestimate this man," she continued, in as steely a voice as Emily had ever heard from her friend. "He will react violently and without mercy to anyone getting in the way of his mission. He has a general and total contempt for the rest of humanity and he will have no problem at all hurting or killing people he perceives as a threat or an obstacle. If you think you have identified him, call it in. Do not engage, do not approach him."

For a moment, her gaze lingered on a female officer near the back of the room, then it moved on. However silly it all sounded, Grace was clearly deadly serious about this.

"I believe Detective Singh has already briefed you on the importance of keeping the details of these cases from the press," said Hotch, and several chastened officers nodded. "Special Agent Jareau will give you a rundown of the statement we're about to release to the media."

He ushered JJ to the front, met the eyes of the rest of the team and nodded, apparently in thanks for their understanding.

0o0

As the assembled officers and detectives dispersed, Grace not-quite-sidled over to the woman who she had picked out earlier. She was a small woman, with olive skin and black hair done up tightly above the pips at her shoulders, which denoted a sergeant's rank. The woman was lingering behind her colleagues, waiting for Grace to arrive. She nodded at an empty corridor behind her and they went along it a little way, where they couldn't be overheard

"You didn't laugh," said Grace, as soon as they were sufficiently shielded from their co-workers.

"Didn't seem like a laughing matter, a rogue wizard with a stick up his ass."

They eyed one another for a moment, then cracked small, relieved smiles.

"I never thought I'd meet another one of us in law enforcement," said the woman, who introduced herself as Sergeant Barnum.

"I wasn't sure I would either," Grace admitted. "At least over here."

"More organised in the UK?"

"For a given value of organised," she replied, with a quirk of her mouth. "Still, I'm glad we've got a pair of eyes on the ground who'll know what they're seeing."

Sergeant Barnum nodded. "I'm assumin' you're goin' after him yourself?"

"Not a great deal of choice," Grace reflected. "I mean, I don't want to spend my week picking pieces of my team out of the walls."

"I hear you," said Barnum. "I'm not much in the way with usin' it for fightin', but hit me up if you need anythin' short of that."

Grace promised she would, then the women went their separate ways. Emily was waiting for her when she emerged from the corridor, a peculiar expression on her face. It cleared when Grace approached, however. She wondered what her friend had made of the profile.

She didn't have to wonder for long. Inside the situation room, Morgan was arguing profusely with a stony-faced Hotch about cooperation.

"Nice profile," said Rossi, in an undertone.

Grace shot him a look; he didn't seem annoyed, merely curious. He was teasing her, she realised.

"Well, you did all the hard work for me," she quipped. "Debunking all those Satanic cults, back in the '80s."

He afforded her a smile.

"It was my idea," she said, loudly interrupting her irritated colleague. She felt the urge to swallow and back out of the room as every single pair of eyes scrutinised her. "I'm sorry you feel like your toes have been stepped on. That was the furthest thing from my intention."

"We work together in this team," said Morgan, rather huffily.

"You're right," she said. "But I've seen this profile before. Crown vs. Drayton, 1989. I read it when I was starting out in London and my old Guv reminded me of it."

It was a risk to lie about something like that – especially among the kind of people who would routinely check facts and alibis and were quite likely to look something like that up, but the alternative was admitting that all of this was real, and she was definitely not prepared to do that.

"We needed to get ahead of this one as soon as we could," Hotch said. "So I took the decision to expand the profile we had already half-formulated with the new information that…" He paused and looked at Grace.

"DCI Lightfoot," she supplied.

"DCI Lightfoot provided."

There was a tense, uncomfortable few moments before Morgan subsided a little.

"You're the one who's always saying that no one works alone," he argued to Hotch.

_And he's right,_ thought Grace. _Except today it's a hack sorcerer who likes to make people's skin explode and unless you get a shot in before he throws something like that at you, you're done for._

Then: _How the hell am I going to keep these guys away from the unsub?_

She rubbed her forehead as the others bickered a little, getting it out of their systems.

"Uh… I hate to interrupt," said JJ, lingering in the doorway. "But I just got a call from Eddy Rosen, Brendan Harper's boyfriend. Harper's father, Ian just suffered a fatal stroke and passed away."

The entire roomful of agents groaned in sympathy.

"The doctors are saying it was likely caused by stress brought on by finding his son's body."

"Oh God," said Spencer, as Morgan slammed a fist down onto the table.

"Absolute bastard," said Grace.

"Okay, we really have to get this guy," Emily spat.

"On that horrible note," said Garcia, emerging from behind the safety of her laptop screen, "I'd like to formally announce that government wipes suck."

"No luck with the latest hard drive?" Rossi asked.

"There's no way around it," she replied, her professional pride clearly piqued. "He must've used a Trojan. That's how I would've done it. Piggy-backing on something innocuous, like that ad for that match-3 game to get in, tracking emails, calendars – maybe even the webcam."

"Urgh," said JJ, with an audible shudder. "I don't like to think of people spying on my when I'm at my computer."

Grace left the rest of the team brainstorming and followed the thread of her thought. Her feet led her to the kettle, while her mind led her back to London.

_Technomancy?_ she thought, as she picked out a mug without anything growing inside it.

It had been a growing field when she had left the UK, as practitioners finally worked out how to shield computer chips from the side-effects of exposure to too much magic (melting, predominantly), and began to interweave the two disciplines together.

If this guy was using a computer virus to access the computer _and_ the virus contained components of a spell…

_Well, that might explain why no one fought back_, she thought. _At the proper time – which he's worked out by cyberstalking them – the spell is triggered and off they go, taking off their clothes, lying down compliantly in the middle of the circle. Unlikely to give any trouble to a self-respecting witch or wizard – they could flick it away like a fly, unless they were used cumulatively, but for everyone else..._ _If they weren't practitioners themselves, it's very unlikely they would be able to resist._

She grimaced at the teabags. The whole concept was like something out of a nightmare.

_I bet he hasn't put it together himself, either_, she thought, with contempt. _A hack magician like that would definitely outsource. So, if I'm right, someone is selling this crap. And that means a goblin market._

Grace sighed aloud, thinking of another wizard who's had a problem with narcissism. "That's the trouble, all that power and contempt can go to a person's head."

"What was that?"

Grace jumped. Spencer had managed to come up to her without making a sound – or she had been too deeply engrossed in her thoughts to notice.

"I may start making you wear a bell," she informed him. "Just thinking aloud."

"Oh, okay," he said, but she could tell he didn't believe her. There wasn't time to worry about that now, however. "We just got another call. We've got a fourth victim."


	19. Deep Waters

**Essential Listening: The River, by Imagine Dragons**

Spencer stood in the one part of the professor's office where he could stand without the blood rising above the forensic booties he had on over his shoes, meditating on death, body fluids and his life choices.

Despite the number of cases and corpses he had seen in his comparatively short career, this one had a _strong_ bolt factor. He was finding it harder than usual to stay put and investigate. It was partly the gore, which was unavoidable. The corpse was still in place, after all, and it was a small enough room that the eye was frequently drawn to the skinless, claret-coloured mess in the middle of the floor.

However, the thing that was really getting under his skin (hah!) was that the professor lying dead in the middle of the smouldering chalk symbols on the floor of the middle of his office was so much like Spencer that it made his brain hurt. He was a few years older, African American and – according to the report that had come in on the ride in, was a widower with two young children – but aside from that, the late Bill Waters' life could have been his in a parallel world. He was a professor of theoretical physics, mathematics _and_ philosophy, had an IQ of 161 and had written a large number of books and articles, many of which – Spencer had realised, when he'd heard the dead man's name – he had read.

Staring at a bookshelf that could have been his, he had the extremely uncomfortable impression that he was investigating the murder of his mirror-world self.

There was a picture of his two (now orphaned) children on the bookshelf, with his late wife. They looked happy and much younger, and Spencer wondered how they would get along now, catapulted into the system at ten and twelve, their father having been murdered in the worst of ways. He hoped they got the support they needed.

Behind him, he heard Morgan puff his cheeks out as he came in. Prentiss, who was just behind him, pulled a face.

"Yikes," she remarked. "It's more intense in the flesh, huh?"

Grace, who was kneeling in the pool of blood, examining the symbols partially obscured by the victim's blood, agreed. "Oh, yeah."

Not for the first time, Spencer was mildly envious of the fact that she was wearing boots.

"First guy not in his house," Morgan pointed out.

"Yeah," said Spencer. "The administrator told me that Waters was seconded here for a year, so they gave him and his two kids accommodation on site."

"Aw man, kids?" Prentiss asked. "Urgh."

"Yeah," said Spencer, gesturing towards the photo. "Harry, aged seven and Freda, aged nine. They were having a sleepover tonight – one of Waters' PhD students was watching them."

"Man, I'm glad this wasn't happening where they were," Morgan reflected.

"Yeah," said Grace. "I'm guessing his time-sensitive agenda meant he couldn't wait for Waters to be home alone, so working late and avoiding a sleepover at work was the next best thing."

"At least there's a chance of him being caught on camera," said Prentiss, grimacing at the freshly peeled corpse. "Rossi's with campus security, checking the videos."

"We can look out for that top hat and leather jacket," Morgan quipped, still harbouring some annoyance from the abrupt change to the morning's profile.

Grace made a bland noise of noncommittal acknowledgement, though Spencer wasn't sure if this was in relation to the comment or the likelihood that anyone using magic to skin people alive (because really, how else was it being done?) would be able to pass by security cameras unseen.

Filing that thought away for potential future discussion, he turned his attention back to the scene.

"He's gotta be stalking them," he observed, though it didn't really need saying.

There was a high sort of buzzing inside his head that he hadn't felt since the cases just after his abduction. He frowned, wondering if it was just the horror of the scene, or something else. He glanced at Grace, but she wasn't paying attention.

"Furniture's stacked weirdly," Prentiss observed. "Like the other scenes." She paused and took a step back to get a better look. "It's like giant Jenga, or something. Hey, maybe he left a print."

"The level of this guy's forensic countermeasures makes it unlikely," said Spencer, thoughtfully.

"Yeah, but he's arrogant and he's already murdered three people before this successfully, without being caught," said Grace, getting to her feet. "He might slip up."

"I'll tell the forensic techs to focus over here," said Prentiss, nodding. "Where are they, by the way?"

"Trainin' day," said Morgan. "I mean, based on Pearce's profile, I might've recalled them all and rescheduled, but whatever."

"Bet they wouldn't get the budget a second time," Grace groused, and they all made noises of agreement, having had extensive experience of the unavoidable bureaucracy of large-scale, law-enforcement based public service jobs.

"So, based on the profile you gave," said Emily, with the nonchalant care of someone Not Mentioning It, "what was this guy's aspect?"

"Intelligence," said Grace. "What I can make out of the symbols under the victim look like the ones for intelligence, from what I remember. But obviously that will be easier to confirm when the coroner takes him away."

"Yeah, apparently this guy had a really high IQ," said Morgan.

"Good job he's already got that area covered," Prentiss joked. "Or we'd have to ring-fence Reid."

Spencer swallowed and gave her a tight smile, aware that the humour was just a way of dealing with the horror of the situation, even if it was a little close to the bone for him, today. Everyone was looking a little pale and shaky, even the other BAU agents. The only one who wasn't was Grace, and Spencer suspected that this was because she had seen something in the scene that had seriously pissed her off, and covering that was taking up enough focus to help her manage the revulsion more easily.

He waited until Prentiss and Morgan were examining the contents of the dead man's desk before slipping out, pulling off and disposing of his booties and gloves at the forensic station, then ducking under the tapeline with more speed than he would have preferred.

His heart was racing; he was sweating; he was breathing in gulps. A scene hadn't affected him like this since he'd started with the Bureau.

Striding quickly through the crowd, aware that he couldn't look weak or nauseous in front of the general public, he did what he had seen Grace do a hundred times: put on an expression that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing, where he was going, and he might be late for an appointment, and just kept moving.

Spencer's feet carried him across the street, into the library, and straight into the first empty study room he came to. Breathing hard, he pulled out the desk that was at the chair, got under the desk and hugged his knees.

_What is wrong with me?_

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. Parts of the room appeared to be simultaneously slipping away from him and sliding towards him. His throat felt dry and hard. It was increasingly difficult to breath.

_I suppose this is a panic attack_, he thought, feeling disconnected from everything except his racing pulse. _But I saw the bodies at the mortuary and I was fine!_

"But they weren't just like you," he reasoned aloud. Then, "Great, now I'm talking to myself as well."

The door opened, startling him badly. Every particle of his body tensed as he readied himself to conceal his ID and gun and bolt from the room before a random student managed to get cell phone footage of a member of the FBI freaking out beneath a table. Before he could, though, the door closed – and locked.

While he was still reacting to that, a pair of shapely, jean clad legs came into view, atop a pair of smart but scuffed leather boots, followed by the rest of Grace. Torn between shame and relief, he stared back at her for one of the longest moments of his life. She took one look at his face and swung around so she could scoot under the desk beside him, leaving just enough of a gap so he didn't feel crowded.

They stayed like that for some time; their backs resting up against the wall, arms around their knees, not saying anything. It felt good to know that he was not alone, but that there were no expectations of him. Slowly, his breathing and heart rate returned to normal, and the panic that had gripped him began to fade into profound embarrassment.

"I feel like such an idiot," Spencer said at last. Even to him, his voice sounded small and quiet. He cleared his throat. "It's hardly the worst I've seen."

"Give yourself a little credit," said Grace fairly. "It's one of the worst _I've_ seen. And I've been to the _Darkhouse_, and Wren's Lantern*_._"

Filing the latter name away for future reference, he nodded slowly. She had told him about the _Darkhouse_ before**, and while it intrigued him in the way murder usually did, he also couldn't imagine it being fun, or the precursor to a good night of sleep.

He swallowed. "I don't know why this one is getting to me so badly," he admitted.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her shrug. "Some just do. I mean, there's nothing like a good flaying to wig a person out," Grace continued, still gazing loosely at the opposite wall. "And Prentiss wasn't far wrong when she made the comparison between you and the victim. That has to be unnerving."

Spencer pressed his lips together and nodded, feeling fragile. He was a little worried that if he opened his mouth again, he might not be able to make any noise.

He heard, rather than saw, Grace shift nearer, then felt the warmth of her body against his side. He leaned into it and, after a moment, dropped his head upon her shoulder. Gently, she intertwined her fingers with his. He let his eyes fall closed, listening to his own heartbeat slowing, feeling anchored to the world again.

It reminded him strongly of the night they had spent together in New Orleans, two years previously, when they had only just met***. He had been spiralling badly at the time – and in that state he hadn't realised that Grace had been in the tail-end of her own personal chaos – but Grace had listened to the tale of horror pouring out of his mouth, held his hand and just let him _be_.

Looking back, it had been that, more than anything, which had made him feel like if he fought to get back on his feet and it was too much for him, there would be someone stubborn and sarcastic in his corner who wouldn't judge him and would be there to help pick him up if he asked for it.

He felt a rush of warmth for the mad woman who had crashed into his life in one of his darkest moments and filled it with weirdness and colour, and who was still – after everything they had put one another through – willingly crawling into make-shift furniture forts with him in the middle of the work day just because he was having a vulnerable moment.

It didn't feel like quite the right time to comment on it, and anyway he wasn't sure he would be able to make the words come out of his mouth, so instead he cleared the thickness in his throat, and instead he asked, "How much of the profile you gave earlier was real?"

"About eighty percent," she said quietly, her voice rumbling peacefully through his temple. He smiled into her neck. "He's a dangerous, arrogant narcissist, but he's not nearly as deluded as we led people to believe."

"So, he's really using magic to immobilise and de-flesh these guys?"

"Yes," she replied heavily. "I'm just not sure how, yet."

"And he's got to – what, collect the full set before the summer solstice?"

"So he supposes." She moved a little, drawing the tips of her fingers to rest over the soft part of his wrist. "I mean, there is an argument that solstices and equinoxes lend more power to a thing, so I understand that. But honestly the aspects he's collecting could never be permanently bound to him. They're going to keep resisting, for as long as he has them – and long-term association with that level of rage and agony is not healthy."

"Uh, I think it's safe to say he's not healthy already," said Spencer. "Do you think he's as smart as he thinks he is?"

"I think he's a fucking idiot, which is useful, at least. I wasn't kidding about not approaching this guy, by the way," she added, after a beat. "If he can flay someone alive – and I'm not saying he can do that without some kind of prop – then he's not going to have to worry too much about guns."

"I'll – uh – try to stay out of the firing line if you will," said Spencer, guessing the direction of her thoughts, and she snorted.

Spencer rubbed his eyeball, frustrated. They were both, he reflected, too stubborn for their own damn good.

Grace, who would probably agree with that description, sighed. "I really don't want to have to deal with this guy hurting any of you."

"We know what we're doing," Spencer said soothingly, though he wasn't sure this was true, having seen the aftermath of what Grace had described as a 'low-level' magical defensive assault in New York.

Grace's silence suggested she was less than convinced, too.

"It's going to be a while before I get the taste of blood out of my mouth," she reflected, after a few minutes had passed.

"Yes. Man, I hope we get this guy before we find another body."

"At least his kids didn't find him this time," she said wearily. "Or his parents."

"Tch-yeah." He frowned, reminded of something. "Hey, uh – when you said earlier that power and arrogance can go to someone's head… I got the feeling you were talking about someone in particular. I know you said it was a sweeping statement, but it didn't sound that much like a generalisation to me."

With his head still on her shoulder and their fingers laced together, he felt every part of her go rigid. He sat up, surprised at her response. "You – uh - don't have to tell me if you don't want to," he said hurriedly, catching sight of her ashen face. "E-ever, I mean."

Grace didn't quite meet his gaze, so he forged onwards, feeling the strange need to fill the silence in the room. He was aware that he had somehow taken a very large, hidden miss-step that he hadn't even known was there. All at once, the maybe-more-than-friendship they had been rebuilding together seemed very fragile indeed.

"But I mean – uh, if you ever d-did want to, uh – I mean… Y-you know I'd be here if you needed someone to listen a-a-and n-not judge and s-stuff," he finished lamely, cursing the sudden reappearance of his stammer.

He watched apprehensively as Grace frowned at her knees and gave a perfunctory nod, never once raising her eyes to his face. She cleared her throat.

"The issue isn't me not trusting you," she said in a small, quiet voice.

He waited a moment to see if any more information would be forthcoming.

"Grace –"

Her cell phone rang. She answered it, half turning her body away from him; shutting him out. "Yeah, JJ? Yeah, just needed a minute away from the crime scene. What, really?" She gasped and shot to her feet, somehow managing to explode out from under the desk without hitting her head or tripping over the chair. "We'll be right there."

"Come on," she said, offering him her hand – which he took, understanding it as a token of a conversation not-yet-had, rather than one that might never be. "The hard drive to Waters' computers is fried, just like the others," she told him.

"So?" Spencer asked, dusting himself off.

"_So_, JJ found a tablet at his home that's not been wiped – and the browsers of both devices were linked."

"Are you serious?" he asked, as they began to beam at one another.

This was better. This felt like progress. This felt like they might be on this unsub's tail.

"She's taking it over to Garcia. Let's go."

"Okay – uh – hey, wait, just a second," Spencer said, catching the crook of her arm as she went to reach for the handle of the door.

"What? What is it?" Grace asked, investigative faculties already fully engaged with this new possibility.

He made up his mind a split second before he did it. Her lips were just as soft and sweet as he remembered; he was loath to pull away, but this was neither the time nor place to lean into the way he felt. For a moment he wondered whether he had taken another, bigger miss-step. Fully expecting to be punched, he examined the look of surprise on her face, still only an inch from his own. Her hand felt warm and steady where it was placed upon his chest.

"Um," he whispered, breath catching in his throat. "Sorry. I'm sorry. Um. It – uh – it seemed like the thing to do."

Grace was watching him with a look of intense assessment in her eyes, head tilted slightly askew, as if a different angle would help her figure him out.

Then, to his immense relief, the smallest of smiles flitted across her features. She pressed her mouth to his. His eyes shut, he felt her bump her nose against his in a sort of friendly acknowledgement that she had missed this too, then he ducked his head to rest against hers for a moment.

When his eyelids fluttered open, she was wearing a wry smile.

"This isn't the time," she murmured, with a huff of quiet amusement.

"No, it's not," he admitted, mouth quirking up at the feel of her breath on his cheek. "But our timing is always horrible, so…"

She chuckled aloud at that, and Spencer found himself doing the same. Grace kissed him again – just as chastely as before, but for a little longer this time.

"Come on, let's get this bastard," she told him, and he had to fight the urge to kiss her again, right then and there. "To be continued?"

Spencer nodded, pleased that his moment of recklessness had paid off, and followed her out into the campus, feeling far more ready to face the monsters of the world again.

He had asked the question and she had answered it.

0o0

*See _Moments of Grace – Season Four, Act Six: The Song of the Sharks_, chapter six (Message in a Bottle), and also _Wren's Lantern_ by Lauren K. Nixon (the other me) in the Superstars' anthology _This Way Up_ (the one with all the pencils on the cover).

**See _Moments of Grace – Season Four, Act One: Before I Sleep,_ chapter three (Cocoa Oasis).

***See _Moments of Grace – Season Two, Act One: Jones_, chapter seven (New Friends).

0o0  
**Bit of a short one this week, and I'm away next week, so I thought I'd leave you with something sweet to tide you over :)**

**P xx**


	20. Technomancer

**Thanks for your answers – and your continued patience, my lovelies! I suspect, based on your rather overwhelming response, that I'll be continuing with the original S2-7 plan, but with my own stuff as a priority. I'll be responding to your messages this evening, but in the meantime (and as a big thank you), I actually managed to produce a chapter! Can't promise to know when the next one will be, but hey!**

**Pxx**

**0o0**

**Essential Listening: The River, by Imagine Dragons**

"There's not much," said Garcia a couple of hours later. "Just ordinary browsing – or what I assume ordinary browsing looks like for a genius level professor type." She shot a grin at Reid. "I did notice one thing, though: there's an invitation to speak at a conference in Norway, and when I opened the page, this flashed up."

She opened a window on the smart screen the Meridian Police Department had had installed as an unexpected attempt to win their vote during the last mayoral run, showing a pop-up advert for a match-3 game.

"That's just like the one Helen Kirkpatrick described," said JJ at once.

"Uh-huh," said Garcia. "And the second it popped up every bit of anti-virus software I have on there lit up like a freaking Christmas tree, including the ones I made my very own self. It's a nasty one."

"Did you stop it?" Prentiss asked, mildly concerned.

"I'm gonna go ahead and pretend you didn't ask me that, because that would mean you doubt my mystical powers, and you should not doubt me, that would be foolish and impolite."

"Oh, of course, I'm sorry," said Prentiss, sharing a wry smile with the others.

"Okay, so it's a Trojan, some mods. Clever, but not clever enough for me!" Garcia preened, and several of them chuckled. "From the code, I can tell you he's collecting data on email, calendars, any programmes running on the PC, contacts, bank account information, everything. Also – and this is the creepiest thing in the history of time, and why I now have a post-it note over my built-in webcam camera – he can tap into webcams whenever he wants."

"There's the stalking component," said Spencer, leaning on the back of a chair.

"All wrapped up in an innocent game," Rossi mused. "Hidden in plain sight."

"I am never playing another match-3," said Grace.

"I don't even know what they are," Spencer admitted.

"Of course you don't, it wasn't invented in the thirteenth century," Morgan teased.

Spencer rolled his eyes.

"Can you track him?" Hotch asked.

"Alas, my powers are not universal, and this skin-thief has bounced this thing off about a zillion VPNS with a dozen drop points. However, I am locked in, I have a trail of thread and I am going to yank that thread until I'm all up in this unsub's creepy-ass grill."

She retreated back behind her laptop, took a slurp of one of the enormous caffeine slushies Detective Singh had brought for her when he'd realised she hadn't stopped for lunch, and started typing, oblivious to everything around her.

"We're assuming that this guy is putting these commercials in places where people who meet his criteria are likely to see it," said Rossi. "If he's targeting specific demographics we might be able to get ahead of him."

"JJ and I are re-interviewing the friends and family of the first victim to get an idea of his browsing habits," said Emily. "We want to talk to the third victim's mother, too, but we're going to wait on that, given… what happened to her husband."

"I've got a bunch of them lined up for you," said Detective Singh, an ugly expression on his face. "The first should be here soon."

"Good. Reid?" Hotch asked, turning to him.

He detached himself from the chair and gestured at the map. "There isn't much. I'm not seeing a real pattern here, perhaps because he's using the – uh – pop-up to select his victims, but I _can_ tell you that most of the murders have taken place along the North Meridian Road." He pointed to the long, North-South road that ran through the heart of Meridian. "But honestly, that doesn't help us very much."

"That's the main access road going from and to basically everywhere in town," said Detective Singh.

"Exactly," said Reid. "All it tells us is that he has transport and is mobile."

"Wizard cartoon," Morgan pointed out, gazing at the screen. "Long, black jacket, top hat, staff. That's fits your description of how this guy sees himself."

Grace nodded, grateful that he'd listened, even if he hadn't been happy about it. "Powerful and mysterious. He probably sees it as an in-joke. Garcia, what are his IT skills like from the pop-up virus?"

Garcia was so focused on her hunt that she didn't look up, so Grace balled up a piece of notepaper and bounced it off her friend's head.

"Hey!" she squealed, glaring at them all over the top of the laptop.

"Rate the unsub's IT skills," Grace said.

Garcia's face turned into an immediate grimace. "He's good, but also a total hack. The code is sound and even clever, but it's nothing innovative. There are places where it looks like he's sewn a couple of off-the-shelf chunks together, using other people's stuff and so on. I mean, hacking code is inherently open source, but there's something flashy, but slipshod about it."

"That fits," said Grace. "Arrogant, semi-skilled, but not skilled enough to pull it off without help – and unwilling to acknowledge that. A flair for the dramatic, but quite immature."

"Exactly." She paused and narrowed her eyes. "You throw anything else at me, 007, I'll hack into your Amazon account and send you weird and suspicious things at random times, and I don't care how many members of law enforcement just heard me say that."

Even Detective Singh chuckled.

0o0

With the fourth victim, the vast quantity of paperwork that murder generated was beginning to develop into a mountain – statements, crime scene photos, autopsy reports, toxicology reports, background checks for friends, neighbours and any persons of interest all needed reading and digesting, and given how quickly this unsub was moving, it was unsurprising that the team ended up pulling an all-nighter.

Grace was too wired to sleep, anyway, what with the sheer volume of magic around. She had become accustomed to a much less magic-saturated environment since moving to Quantico and joining the BAU, and the presence of such a vast amount of raw, sparkling energy was enough to make it a struggle not to bounce off the walls. She felt a lot like she had been chugging energy drinks all day. It was also difficult not to let everyone else know it, and she knew perfectly well that the bouncing-her-leg-up-and-down method of energy dispersal was really irritating whoever sat next to her.

The horror of what had been done to these victims was sufficient to keep everyone awake, and the Detectives' office of the Police Department was unusually busy. There was a distinct sense that this one was going to be one of those cases that nobody ever let go of. It was probably the horror aspect, but each time she walked through the office, Grace was sure she spotted more and more good luck tokens of various faiths. Perhaps the other officers were instinctually sensing the darkness lurking at each scene, even without the disturbing remains of the victims still in place.

The rest of the team were feeling the weirdness, too. Even though they dealt with cases as physically and emotional disturbing as this on a daily basis, there was just something about the taking of a whole human's skin that was hard to comprehend or accept. Each of them were burying themselves in the work with more than usual dedication, avoiding having to think too hard about the nightmares that this case was going to leave them with.

Hotch in particular was unusually dour, though Grace was sure it had everything to do with the unliving horror he had ordered her to show him at the third victim's house. Reid, too, seemed a little more vulnerable than normal, what with the similarities between him and the late Bill Waters – similarities that just seemed to keep stacking up, the more they uncovered.

She glanced over at him and felt the corner of her mouth lift fondly. The kiss in the library had been an unexpected moment of sweetness in an otherwise horrible day, and by no means unwelcome. There were a whole raft of complicated emotions she needed to unpack (some of them with him) before she let whatever they were got any further, but this wasn't really the time for that.

Meeting his gaze for a moment as he turned from the map to the main board, pinning up locations and adding information in his sweeping, spidery handwriting, she offered him a small smile, which he returned almost shyly, before they both sank once again into the avalanche of paperwork developing around them.

It was just past the witching hour when Grace's phone figuratively exploded with message after message from her old team – or, at least, those of them who still chose to talk to her – signalling the start of the working day.

_The Guv must have passed on my good wishes,_ she thought, sifting through the demands for her to write or call, advice on tackling practitioners (like she didn't already know!) and weird titbits of knowledge about flayings.

She texted most of them back, then went out into the early morning mist hanging over Meridian to call Max.

Detective Sergeant Max Cassidy was one of those people who, no matter how long it has been since you last saw or spoke to them, always made you feel like you'd only stepped out of the room five minutes before. He and Grace had come up together through the detective programme, along with a couple of other officers, and the two of them had a habit of thinking of one another as siblings. Since her relocation to America, he had been the ringleader behind various care packages (along with Alice), including a small crate full of tea, old fashioned sweets, whiskey and a book on 17th century murder following her recent brush with death.

He answered on the third ring. "Morn-n' Ki- Vishus," he said, though the words were muffled, as if his mouth was full. "Jus' grabb-n' brea-f-st a' th' 'ive."

"Hey Supermax," she replied, unable to prevent the grin from spreading across her face. "You know if you talk with your mouth full, Betsy'll kick you out for the sake of her other patrons."

"Betsy's in the back," he said, much more clearly this time. "And what she doesn't know, won't hurt her. What do you need?"

"Can't I call an old friend for a chat?" she asked, playing up the mock offence.

Max laughed. "Yes, and you do, but not during work hours. I meant what I said in the text, just let me know what I can do to help."

"You're a gentleman and a scholar," said Grace, imagining her old friend rolling his eyes.

"Wow, the talent must be very thin on the ground where you are, then."

Grace snorted. "Not as thin as all that. Just need someone with your particular expertise."

"And here was me thinking you'd hit your head and got all romantical."

"Did the Guv tell you about the case I'm working on?"

"A bit," he said, immediately switching gears. "Enough that I'm sure everyone has sent you their opinion on how the flayings were done." He lowered his voice. "Sorry, there are other customers in here, so –"

"Yeah, don't make them regret their breakfasts, or Betsy really will have your guts for garters," said Grace. "He must be using magic to do it, and as both Geoff and Arnold texted me, there are a limited number of ways of doing that. Nothing in this guy's profile suggests he's clever or powerful enough to do it."

"Hence the circle," said Max, thoughtfully. "Accomplice?"

"Highly unlikely," Grace said at once. "He won't be able to work with others; he sees himself as a sort of superior lone wolf."

Max made an unhappy sort of noise.

"Yeah," Grace agreed. "There is one thing I've been wondering – and it sounds insane, but hear me out."

"Insane is relative," said Max philosophically. "In an hour I have an appointment to meet a 12th century mummy about a records search."

"Fair. Okay, I know traditionally modern tech does not play well with magic –"

"Tends to get a bit melty, yeah," Max remarked, between bites of whatever his breakfast was.

"– but this unsub is tech-savvy. He's using a virus to stalk his victims, learn their routines and so on. What if the virus contains code that activates some kind of holding spell? None of the victims resisted – there are no defensive wounds, or signs of a struggle, and not one neighbour heard screaming – even on the campus, which was teeming with students last night because of some kind of rally."

There was a moment of speculative silence in which Grace could mostly hear chewing.

"I've heard the odd rumour," he said, at last. "Hard drives with spells built into the software, made to order. Sounded like bollocks, but it wouldn't surprise me. The IT field is always moving forward, and you know what practitioners are like for prodding things other people think they shouldn't."

"Anything more concrete?"

"No, sorry. I'll ask around, though. Might've started trickling through – may be something that's evolving elsewhere, like over there, or in Asia, and making its way into our patches more slowly." He took a noisy slurp of tea that made Grace wince and continued, "If you're right it'll be a brave new world of new and horrible ways to fuck people up with magic."

"You've got that right," said Grace, thinking of the crime scenes. "Bringing anyone who is unskilled and powerful the tools they need to cause trouble."

"Or skilled, but weak."

"Hmm."

"You might try the local goblin market," he suggested, and Grace nodded, even though he couldn't see her.

"Yes, that was next on my list. There're always people willing to sell less legal stuff under the counter – and everything I've looked into suggests it's pretty much all deregulated over here anyway. I get the impression most practitioners are either self-policing or get caught in other investigations, where there's enough evidence to tie someone to a crime, but not enough to work out how they did it. There's no Eldritch Branch equivalent."

"Except you," he teased.

Grace laughed. "I hate to break it to you, Supermax, but America's a big place. It'll take more than one weirdo with a badge to keep the other weirdos from hurting people."

She thought fleetingly of Sergeant Barnum. Perhaps there _were_ others, surreptitiously keeping an eye on things, their colleagues unaware of their (and likely the criminals they dealt with) more unusual skills or habits. At the very least, it meant eyes on the ground with local knowledge.

Perhaps, when all of this was over, she should get Alice to mine Garcia for the tools to start finding practitioners who were also first responders and linking them into some kind of useful network.

"I think you could handle them," said Max.

"I could handle _you_," Grace replied automatically and he laughed.

"Weirdo. I miss your stupid face."

Grace smiled. "You know, you could always come out here and visit my stupid face."

"Maybe I will."

"You'd be more than welcome – the others too, if they fancied it," she offered. "Well, maybe not Roger…"

Max snorted. "Do me a favour, Kid Vicious, and don't get dead before I get a chance to take you up on that. This bastard sounds tricky – and I know you have enough trickiness in you for about six people, but still. It's not like your team can really back you up on this one."

"I'll do my best," she promised, clicking the bones in her wrist in an absent minded sort of way.

"Alright then. Hey, if you get your hands on any of this technomancy kit, I'd love to take one apart."

"I'll get you one for your birthday," she promised.

"Hey, even Goblin Markets keep digital records these days – your techie friend that's mentoring Alice might have an in there."

Grace's smile turned into a frown. "You keeping me on the line for some reason? You know that's the first thing I'm gonna check."

"I just, er…"

"What?"

Max sniffed, took a monster slurp of tea with a noise that never failed to turn Grace's stomach, and said, "How's your wrist?"

She didn't answer right away, gazing out into the still, slightly damp night. "Got the cast off, which is a bit of a relief," she said at last. "And it's started clicking, which is a pain in the arse."

"Yeah, I bet."

"Mmm."

Max sighed, but didn't say anything else about it, to Grace's relief. "Alright, I've got to go. I don't want to be late for Old Meg."

"Old Meg's always late, to begin with," she responded, but the humour was half-hearted.

0o0

"_Yahtzee!"_ Garcia shouted, leaping up from her chair.

It was a quarter to five, and about half an hour before shift change. Most of the department were out, or lulled into that semi-savage dullness that you only really got on an early morning when everyone had worked straight through. Spencer and Grace jumped out of their skins [no pun intended]; Morgan dropped his half-cold cup of coffee; JJ clutched her chest in fright; Rossi gave a loud snort that suggested he had been asleep; and Emily – who had been asleep with her face on the desk – shot upright so fast she fell off her chair.

"Holy mother of –" Morgan exclaimed. "Babygirl, go easy on us. It's not even dawn yet and not a single one of us has slept yet. Well, except Prentiss."

Emily glowered at him as Hotch pulled her to her feet, giving him some choice words of complaint.

Garcia ignored them. "I tracked his servers," she said, and suddenly everyone was significantly more awake. "Not his IP address – this sneaky little asshat his clever, but not that clever. I'm onto him. I am onto his tricks."

"Garcia, slow down," said Hotch. "You said you have his servers – do you have an address?"

"No, no, I have his servers, but he's got them cycling randomly. He's using a pseudonym – at least, the name he registered them under dead-ends in a guy who died in 1992 with an address on a vacant lot. But I have his servers, and he's not about to change those now."

"Which means?" Rossi asked.

"It means," said Garcia, with the air of someone being made to explain post graduate physics to a room full of five year olds, "I can stop him using the virus from his dumb pop-up thing to select his victims and stalk them."

"And that's way more than we had yesterday," said JJ, a smile beginning to form on her face.

"Can you write a programme to track his IP address?" Spencer asked.

"A virus to piggyback on his virus?" she asked, giving him a hard stare. "Oh, you know, I hadn't thought of that."

Spencer rolled his eyes, fondly.

"How long will it take, Garcia?" Hotch asked.

"It's already running, but I don't know. You profiled this guy as arrogant, and he's nothing but a hack, but in this instance his IT skills are annoyingly on point, as far as I can tell."

"Keep at it," Hotch instructed.

"The sun'll be up in a couple of hours," Rossi mused.

"The rest of us should get some sleep," said Hotch, and people began to stir.

"Oh, I'm so out," said Emily, stretching. "My brain has turned to soup."

"Me too." JJ yawned.

"I've actually just hit a second wind," said Grace, and felt Hotch's eyes laser in on the side of her head. "You guys sleep, I'll take the next shift."

"Uh, yeah, me too," said Reid. He shot Grace a look and then glanced at Hotch. "Someone's gotta keep Garcia company."

"You sleepin' Babygirl?" Morgan asked, following their cue.

"Sleep is for the weak," she said, not even looking up from her keyboard.

"Guess I'm stayin' too," said Morgan, with affection.

"Alright," said Hotch, after a long moment. "Call us if anything changes."

"You got it," said Morgan.

0o0

Twenty minutes later, he was asleep on the desk, snoring lightly, and Garcia was so deeply engrossed in cracking the guy's IP that she hadn't even commented.

Spencer glanced out into the main homicide office. It was quiet, though a lot of officers were dozing at their desks or downing mug after mug of coffee. Right now, this chase was paperwork, forensics and processing, and that couldn't be done properly at speed. It made for a lull in attentiveness, and that was useful for his current purposes.

Shooting a glance at Garcia and Morgan, he took the corner seat beside Grace, angled so they were both next to one another and opposite. She looked up from her paperwork and gave him a tired grimace.

"How're you holding up?" she asked, sending her own glance towards their colleagues.

"Better," he said, a small smile growing on his face. "Thanks."

Below the table, she knocked her leg into his, companionably; his smile broadened.

"So, what's really going on here?" he asked, more soberly.

Grace sighed and rubbed her face. "Our guy is using what I think is pre-programmed hack magic, built into computer software to subdue and possibly flay people alive," she said quietly, and then gave him a few moments to let that sink in.

Spencer stared at her, horrified. "Is that even possible?"

She gave a sort of facial shrug. "Three days ago, I'd have said no, but –" She waved a hand at the autopsy reports in front of her."

"You've never heard of that before?"

"No," she said. "But I asked Max, and he made noises about rumours, but there's nothing concrete."

Spencer nodded thoughtfully. "Okay, so he's on the front lines of magical and technological advancements. Why?"

"Why cross-pollinate electrical goods and magic?"

"No, I kinda get that," he said. "It's convenient, it's ubiquitous – and…" He met her gaze with no small amount of amusement, despite the tenor of the conversation. "And I totally get wanting to be able to do real magic."

Grace huffed a laugh. "Yeah, it's fairly tempting."

He frowned. "Not – not flaying, or anything," he assured her, and she gave his arm an answering squeeze.

He had to fight to keep the smile off his face. "What I mean is, why this? Why now?"

For a moment, Grace gazed out into the quiet bullpen beyond the blinds. Spencer waited, aware that this wasn't offence, or a brush off – merely her way of gathering her thoughts.

"From what I saw at the crime scene, he's using blended rituals and pseudo-scientific magic to tear these men from their bodies and trap them, in order to consume them, or bind them to him."

Spencer felt his eyebrows rocket skywards. "Like… their souls?"

Grace nodded, looking very weary and not a little angry.

He opened his mouth and shut it again. Then, "And he's using them for what, power? Like a battery?"

"More or less."

They were quiet for a moment as Spencer considered the logical conclusion of this. "We better get him before he finishes his ritual."

This time, Grace's nod was particularly emphatic.

A feeling of suspicion stole over him and Spencer narrowed his eyes. "You're going after him alone, aren't you," he said flatly.

Again, Grace rubbed a tired hand over her face. "I don't much like the idea, either – and it's been years since I properly sparred with someone – but I've got a much better shot at walking out of it than any of the rest of you."

He gave her the kind of look he knew in the depths of his soul that she would be giving him right now, were their positions reversed.

"Flak jackets and riot gear aren't much good against someone like me," she told him gently.

"You got shot in New York," he pointed out, and glanced at her wrist. He didn't say the words 'Peach Tree City' aloud, though.

A kiss was a kiss, but it didn't mean there wasn't still a line.

"We're far from immortal," she admitted, rotating her wrist. It gave a crunchy sort of click and Spencer winced on her behalf. "But I'm our best chance at bringing this guy to his knees."

Measuring the certainty in her voice, and weighing the likelihood that they were facing something outside of everyone's ballpark but hers, he nodded. "Okay. What's our next move?"

Some of the tension left Grace's features immediately. "Our?" she asked, cocking her head to one side, almost playfully.

"Mmhmm."

"_My_ next move is to find the local goblin market and give it a good, old-fashioned shake down."

He frowned. "Goblin market… like, Christina Rosetti's goblin market?"

"More or less," she said again. "Much less fae and much more like a cross between a dodgy, low-level arms dealer and a suspicious aromatherapy shop. It's where all the local practitioners will get their ingredients – particularly the ones that might be frowned upon by a law enforcement agency, if they had any idea they existed in the first place."

Momentarily caught on the possibility that a shop like this might have rare books, he missed Grace's look of amusement.

"I think _you_ ought to stay here, though."

"What? Why?" he asked, crestfallen.

"Far too many things to tempt a magician who 'wouldn't mind trying real magic' for themselves, there," she said, almost playfully.

He rolled his eyes. "I am never living that admission down, am I?"

"Not likely," she said, with a curve to her lips that did interesting things to his insides; then she frowned. "And the proprietors can spot a novice a mile off. It goes with the territory. I don't want you to become an ingredient for something. Besides, you're best placed to spot any weirdness that crops up – weirderness, anyway – and keep the others out of it until I get back."

Spencer sighed, resigned to the wisdom of this. It was her area, after all. "Fine."

He looked down, feeling her fingers lace with his, and then up into those periwinkle eyes that haunted the long hours before dawn. "I'll make it up to you," she promised, and he found himself glancing at her lips – and then further down, towards the dip of her collarbone, just visible at her neckline.

He swallowed. "Yeah?"

"I'll take you to a far more legit magical shop, when we're back in DC," she offered, and then gave him a deliciously crooked smile. "Among other things."


	21. In Plain Sight

**Essential Listening: This World, by Selah Sue**

At seven thirty, Grace shook Morgan awake, gently prised Garcia from her keyboard to refuel on leftover takeout and went to splash some cold water on her face, content in the knowledge that Reid was pouring coffee into everyone.

She caught her reflection in the mirror over the sink: she looked as tired as she felt. The circles below her eyes were beginning to take on a darker purple hue, and the rest of her face looked pale and drawn. Deciding that it would be a good idea to refresh her makeup before facing the team (who were annoyingly observant) or the local black market proprietors (who were always ready to capitalise on vulnerability) saw her, she retrieved her bag from the makeshift situation room they had created.

Eventually, she was going to have to give up and take her shift at the hotel, she knew, but not yet. No one else could safely navigate the internal politics of a goblin market – not without coming out a little bit changed. She wouldn't risk that. Apart from anything else, it would further complicate an already convoluted case. As it was, she was having to dance on the edge of things, just to keep the team from realising the true, rather unusual nature of what they were really investigating. It was rather trying – like running two investigations at once.

_And never the twain shall meet_, she thought, wryly.

By eight, the rest of the team were stumbling back in, not looking particularly well-rested. That was the trouble with taking a break: sometimes the exhaustion hit you harder than if you had worked straight through. She had caught up with Sergeant Barnum during the early morning shift change, and taken advantage of her local knowledge, so when Hotch called everyone together at half past eight, she was ready.

"I've got a line on some of the less reputable purveyors of pseudo-arcana from the locals," she announced, and ignored the vaguely tolerant 'you're crazy' looks they gave her. "I figure if he's buying supplies for his rituals, it'll be under the table, and they might remember someone with such a flamboyantly arrogant character."

"Good idea," said Hotch. "You have the best operational knowledge of this kind of unsub," he said, somehow managing not to make that sound weird. "But you can't be in the field alone. You don't have your gun certification."

"I'll babysit," Morgan offered. "If I don't stretch my legs I'm gonna crash."

"You should go back to the hotel and sleep," said Reid, but Morgan shook his head.

"Nah, man. I napped, you didn't. I got this."

"Good," said Hotch. "Prentiss, Rossi, head to the coroner, see if they've had a chance to look at the most recent victims. JJ, I want you to keep on at the media – we really don't want them to catch a whiff of the stranger parts of this one."

"Yeah, we don't want a panic," said JJ, with a glance at Grace that told her the very strange profile was at the forefront of her mind.

"I want to take another look at the first couple of crime scenes, see if anything stands out, now we know more about our unsub. Reid?"

"Sure, let's do it," he said, running a tired hand across his face and grabbing his coat.

"Garcia?"

"I'll let you know when I have worked my magic, oh great and mighty leader!"

"Right," he replied, giving her the fondly baffled look she often inspired.

As he passed her, he met Grace's eyes, possibly intending to remind her not to take any undue risks – with her, or with Morgan. She gave him the slightest inclination of her head. She would do her best.

0o0

By one o'clock they had hit three out of the way, weird little hippy shops that he would never normally have visited and Derek's stomach was beginning to remind him that he had been up all night without any snacks or breakfast. None of the proprietors had fitted or recognised their profile among their regulars, and he was beginning to wonder if Grace was wrong about the whole need for local recognition thing and their unsub was ordering his paraphernalia online.

He glanced at the woman in the passenger seat. She was quiet today, probably in response to his prickliness over the (in his opinion) highly unorthodox profile from the day before. He still didn't really know what Hotch was playing at, letting an agent run a profile solo, like that. Sure, they all had their own specialisms, and that brought all sorts of insights to a profile – but that was the point: together, their profile was better informed and more useful. When people worked in isolation they were more likely to miss the mark entirely – and that was something both Hotch and Pearce knew.

It wasn't that he didn't trust her judgement, either, and so far, she had been right on the money. It was just a bizarre decision for either of them to have made. He glanced over at her again. She was gazing out of the window, one finger absently tracing the journey between the last shop and the next. She looked tired, but no more so than he felt. He wondered how she was sleeping. Peach Tree City hadn't been that long ago, and one of the recurring problems with their little professional family was that everyone came back earlier than they should. Fleetingly, he thought of Elle Greenaway, and carefully packed away the pang of regret that accompanied the memories he had of his friend, as he always did. Whatever she had done, she had been his partner, first and foremost.

Derek shook his head at himself. No one on their team was a paragon of dealing with things they didn't want to. But still, Pearce was a friend.

He cleared his throat.

"It's okay," she said, before he could speak, and he shot her a look. "I didn't take it personally."

Derek chuckled. "You don't even know what I was about to say."

"Yes, I do." She put on a serious expression that he could only half make out from the corner of his eye – an impression of him, he realised. "'Sorry about yesterday, Pearce. I just don't get why you and Hotch are all cagey about this one'," she mimicked, in a terrible Chicago-adjacent accent.

"Don't profile me," he warned, though mostly he was amused.

"Back at you."

He chuckled. "My eyebrows don't move like that," he said, after moment.

Pearce scoffed. "Yes they do. They're like angry caterpillars having a fight."

Without taking his eyes off the road, he reached over and gently punched her arm, aware that it hadn't been long out of plaster. "Itchin' powder, Pearce."

They smiled at one another. The next few minutes passed in a much friendlier silence than before.

"I know it's weird," she said, while Derek waited for a dude in a particularly shitty Volvo to pull out and merge with traffic. "And I know it's not how we generally do things, but I've seen this before."

"And Hotch just went for that?"

Pearce nodded. "He wasn't particularly happy about it."

"So, this other case…" he asked, letting the question hang in the air.

"I'm not really supposed to talk about it," said Pearce.

Derek had the sudden impression that there was a vast, unconquerable distance between them. Curiously, it didn't feel like a thing that had just opened up. Maybe it had always been there, just beneath the surface, but invisible. He wasn't sure; what he was sure of, was that she was lying – and he said so.

She visibly stiffened, throwing her gaze out of the other window for a moment. Derek had the peculiar sense that the gulf between them was widening and he had the urge to backtrack, but he didn't. Trust was earned, and he couldn't be doing with his best friends lying to him. That sort of thing never ended well – especially when everyone on this team regularly had to put their lives in each other's hands.

"It was a bad case," she said, at last, and Derek allowed himself to relax, glad his gamble had paid off. "And not just – I mean, personally, as well as professionally."

He pulled over, to her surprise. They were still a few minutes out from the next address on their list. Perhaps guessing what he was about, Pearce's body language was rapidly closing off; a defence mechanism Derek recognised from his own repertoire.

"I'm not going to talk about it," she said tightly.

"You know I don't let go of a thing," he said gently.

"I know," she said, something that might ordinarily be described as a smile travelling across her lips. "But this is not something…" She pressed her lips together into a thin, unhappy line. "You're one of my best friends, Derek, but… This is not a thing I can do. Ever."

She met his gaze, then, and Derek was astonished to see a kind of naked fear in her eyes. It was the kind of look he associated with victims of serious trauma, and not something he had ever really expected to see on the face of a colleague (despite the number of appalling things that had happened to them). She hadn't even looked like that after Georgia. He watched her for a moment, and thought about the armour he had built around the awful things that had been done to him as a kid – and about how impossible that had been to talk about with the other members of his team. How he still hadn't, really.

"Okay," he said, at last, and she looked so immensely relieved that he felt he had probably made the right decision – for the time being, at least. "But you know I got your back, though, right?"

Pearce nodded, looking at her knees. "I know it."

For a moment she looked as vulnerable as she had when Dodds had been dragging her out of that barn in Georgia. Derek decided not to push it. "Okay," he said, and started the engine. "So," he began, as they pulled back out into traffic, "you reckon this will pay off, or…"

"Or am I sending us all round the houses for no good reason?" she finished, and it was almost snappish.

Fear, Derek realised. It was a tricky thing to let go of.

"I didn't say that."

She muttered something that sounded a lot like 'Yeah, but you thought it loud enough,' and Derek was immediately put in mind of the slightly childish way Reid responded when he was seriously pissed. He thought about Vegas and West Bune, and the curious smell of gunpowder that collected around her sometimes when she was mad. He chose to let it go.

"I'm right about this, Morgan," she said shortly. "I just can't tell you why."

"That is not very helpful," he pointed out. Hell, he was tired, too. Pearce tutted, but he continued before she could interrupt. "But I trust you, so – let's do this."

They didn't speak again until they were out of the SUV and crossing the small parking lot. Derek stepped back to let a young mother with a pram navigate past them, and Pearce touched his arm.

"Thanks," she said, and somehow he realised this was a sort of contract. He wouldn't chase her secrets, and she wouldn't chase his – at least, not in a way either of them would know about.

"You got it. Buy me lunch and we're square," he added, which earned him the flash of a smile.

It lasted for a whole block, then her whole demeanour changed, the moment she set foot in the store. She knew it had, because Morgan threw her a very peculiar look, and she managed to murmur, "Let me do the talking," to him before striding right up to the woman on the till.

Derek let her. Given how weird she was being about the whole case, he was curious about where this would go. He followed her, aware that she was counting on his narrow tolerance of her secretive weirdness to continue for just a bit longer. He just wished he knew why.

"Good afternoon," she said, brightly, flashing her ID to the woman. "Your manager in?"

"Uh, sure," she said, eyeing the FBI badge with some surprise. "Hey, Chuck, you got a visitor."

Morgan watched as the woman's eyes narrowed very slightly on Pearce's face, as if she was reading something there that he didn't know about. Then her eyes slid over to him. For a moment, she looked puzzled, then her lips curled pleasantly and Derek grinned. She was cute, under the layers of cobweb lace and torn clothing, with dark hair and dark eyes that flashed over him from behind her rather gothic makeup.

"Can I help you?" she purred, and he shook his head.

"I'm with her," he replied, nodding towards Pearce, who was apparently fascinated by a stand of crystals on the counter.

"What is it, Xandra?"

Both agents looked up as a spare, wiry, middle-aged man stuck his head out of the door behind the counter. Every instinct Morgan had immediately told him that this guy was all kinds of shady.

_A fence, maybe, or a small time dealer._

He glanced at Pearce, who had evidently clocked the same atmosphere of skeeze clinging to the guy.

"Chuck," she said, with a cold sort of smile. "Right?"

Chuck looked both of them up and down, unimpressed, and barely glanced at their badges.

"I have some questions, if that's alright?"

"You better come into the back," said Chuck, glancing at Xandra.

Grace managed to communicate that she wanted Morgan to stay out front with the store assistant, while she shook down the owner.

_Alright,_ he thought, and leaned against the counter, returning Xandra's smile. _Trust. I've got your back._

She leaned against it, too. "So, sugar, what can I do for you?"

0o0

"No, I'm sorry, I don't recognise your description," said Chuck, with just enough smugness to tell Grace that he was lying and he thought she was stupid enough to believe him.

"It doesn't sound like any of your customers?" she pressed.

"No, not remotely. You know," he added, going to candour, "Someone that over-the-top would stand out. I'm pretty sure I'd be able to recall it."

"You have CCTV?" she asked, though she knew there was little real point, given what magic could do to a system like that.

"No, sweetie," he said. "We have a couple of dummies and a mirror, but that's it. If I'm honest, we don't have a lot of trouble."

"Mm-hmm," she said, nodding along with him. They probably didn't – or, at the very least, if someone did cause trouble they were unlikely to try it twice. "And you wouldn't have any idea about the sale of items of a more unusual nature?" she added, testing the waters.

"Like what?" he asked, his eyes darting to the right – towards the large racks of warehouse shelving that lined the wall.

"Specifically, software."

"We have a teach-yourself-massage program that's very popular with the ladies," he said, running his eyes over her. "Though that one is better with company. Aromatherapy and Reiki, too."

"I was thinking something a little more practical," she replied, ignoring the ogling.

"Not sure I follow you," said Chuck.

"I'll bet."

"Say, can I interest you in a luck charm?" he said, turning and opening a drawer. He pulled out a small, silver chain with a crescent moon and a sun charms hanging from small loops, a narrow purple ribbon wound around it, from clasp to clasp. "I mean, a pretty lady like you would have no need for a love charm, I'm guessing. And in your line of work, you could probably do with all the help you can get." He dangled the chain in front of her. "Right? On the house."

The chain looked entirely inoffensive – the kind of thing a teenage girl would particularly adore. A sweet odour clung to it, along with the unmistakable fragrance of liquorice.

Grace raised her eyes from the bracelet to the man proffering it without comment.

"No? Sure would look pretty around your lovely wrist."

She just kept on gazing at him, which was beginning to unnerve him. A thin sheen of sweat was breaking out on Chuck's upper lip and forehead.

"Maybe – maybe not," he said, and turned to put the bracelet back in the drawer, but before he could, the ribbon burst into flame.

He yelped and dropped it. "What the hell?" His head snapped around and he stared at Grace, nostrils flaring and eyes widening.

_That's right,_ Grace thought. _That was me. You're catching up._

"You're going to regret that!"

"Sweet flag and liquorice?" she asked, in an altogether different tone, allowing the door behind her to swing closed and lock with an audible click. "Cheap, nasty trick, that one, Chuck."

"I don't know what you mean," he retorted, but his eyes were darting left and right, trying to find a way out.

"Purple silk and a silver chain, too. Powerful stuff. Was there an incantation, as well, or were you hoping I'd just slip it on my wrist and bend to your will?"

"I don't – I don't –"

"And you appear to have a whole drawer full of trinkets that reek of compulsion oil. Whatever have you been doing with all those binding charms?"

Grace hadn't moved a muscle, but Chuck had been backing away, edging toward one particular corner. The moment he went for the staff he had concealed behind his desk, Grace reached out her hand and twisted it; the staff gave a shriek, like steam out of a kettle, and splintered into three, ragged pieces.

Chuck gave a yell, and tried to reach for another drawer. Grace didn't wait to find out what was inside it. All at once, every box on every shelf of the warehouse began to shake, violently. Anything leaning against something else fell with a series of crashes, moving closer and closer to Chuck, who was pressed hard against the wall.

"Who the fuck are you, lady?"

"I gave you my name," she said (though she had been careful not to – he wasn't about to argue right now), and the quality of her voice had changed, now, as though it was coming from somewhere deeper than simply from inside her chest.

"You can't tell me some FBI bitch is an old world, instinctive hag!" he shouted, red with anger and not a little trepidation. "That badge is fake!"

"It isn't," she replied, calmly. "But this is not the only name I've gone by."

"Yeah, yeah!" he spat, but she could tell by the sweat and the darting eyes that he was scared. Theatrics had a way of doing that to a coward like Chuck, which was why she had used them. "So, what's your other name?"

Grace told him, and all the colour drained from his face.

"No! No don't hurt me! I'll do anything!"

Fixing him with a cold stare that gave him no hope whatsoever, Grace allowed the power she was harnessing dissipate harmlessly. The sudden stillness seemed overloud and disconcerting.

"Wh-wh-what do you want?"

"Honesty. I _am_ an FBI agent – and I _am_ a witch, so you can't fob me off with the patchouli and candles routine. I want to know if you have a customer who matches the description you gave me. You can nod, if that helps," she added, and Chuck nodded fervently.

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Nothing!" he exclaimed. "He comes in every other month, buys the usual range of paraphernalia." He pulled a face and Grace recognised the same professional disdain she had felt for the unsub. "And a bunch of showy, tourist crap. The stuff people buy when they want to make themselves look fancy."

"Name?"

"No, I don't know!" he cried. "I promise. I don't like him – I – he gives me the creeps. I make Xandra serve him."

"Of course you do," Grace grumbled, with disgust. "I want your sales records – all of them."

Chuck began to sputter, but Grace raised an eyebrow and he fell silent.

"I also want free samples of all your technomancy equipment."

"It's a new line!" he assured her. "I only carry the one kind – USB sticks."

"What do they have on them?"

Chuck swallowed. "Um…"

"You wouldn't be about to lie to me, would you?" she asked. "Because we were getting somewhere, Chuck, and that would hurt my feelings."

"Compulsion spells!" he told her hurriedly. "The customer can – can alter it however they want, if they can code."

Grace was silent for a moment. It wasn't a huge surprise; the kind of people who ran and shopped at a goblin market weren't the kind of people who worried about things like consent, after all, but the bald, careless audacity of it was staggering. She spent thirty seconds reminding herself that an FBI agent shouldn't kill a member of the public, even if they _were_ peddling what were essentially rape and murder aids, and that actually she did want to keep her job.

Deciding the amount of paperwork Chuck having an unexpected heart attack would generate would slow the case down at a really inconvenient time, she fixed him with a dark, dangerous look as he rummaged in a box on the desk. "Is the virus and the government wipe standard, or did he do that on his own?"

"The entry virus is standard – I've never thought about adding a wipe…"

"I'd advise you to continue not thinking about that," she said shortly. "Did our friend buy anything for containment?"

"Containment?" Chuck asked, evidently surprised. "What's the pretentious son of a bitch using it for?"

Grace ignored him. She didn't want to give him marketing ideas. "I'll need instructions on how to defuse the things, and I want to watch you do it. I'll know if you're trying to trick me – and given that my very close friend will be analysing them, believe me when I say if you try anything funny, or do something that hurts them I will make sure nobody ever finds you."

Chuck mopped his brow. "Yeah, uh – sure. Always happy to help law enforcement."

"Mm-hmm," she said. "You have an hour after I leave to make this place safe for my people to search – and if it isn't –"

"Yeah, I get the picture," he groused. "You're trying to shut me down. It's against my civil rights!"

"And what do you do with those bracelets?" Grace asked pointedly.

Chuck ran a finger along the inside of his collar. "Listen, lady, I just sell them –"

"Good. I want records of everyone you sold them to, as well. You're putting people in grievous danger."

"But it's not illegal," he said. "I mean, the cops can't police a place like this – they're not like your lot, in London."

Grace smiled – or, at least, bared her teeth. "I think the question you need to ask yourself, Chuck, is 'how sure am I that this FBI bitch is the only one?'"

0o0

By the time she had returned to the shop proper, she had a sheaf of receipts, the access code for the business accounts, two defused and highly dangerous USB sticks (one in an evidence bag, one in an envelope to send to Max), and a sense that she really wanted a shower in the near future. Having successfully put the fear of all the old gods into the creep (who was hopefully now hastily undoing a lot of unpleasant spell work), she was feeling rather pleased with herself.

It had been a long time since she had had the opportunity to show off a bit, and she was currently trying to convince herself that she wasn't having fun.

She found Xandra and Morgan leaning against opposite sides of the counter, heads close and talking low. There was a red woven cord looped around Morgan's right wrist, the other end of which Xandra was holding. His eyes were glazed over, which was not a good sign.

Grace grabbed the woman's wrist, non-too gently. "I would suggest you rethink your options," she said softly, in the woman's ear. "Undo it."

"This is not your business," Xandra hissed.

"This man is under my protection," said Grace, just as softly.

"You don't scare me," Xandra snarled.

"Then, dearie," said Grace, making a complicated sign in the air behind her, "you are more of a fool than you look."

She twisted her fingers, and all the light and sound left the room in a rush – like the deep breath before the storm. The only source of light remaining was a faint white haze, settling around the shop assistant like a cloak. Her head snapped back, making Xandra panic and twist in Grace's grip to counter the spell, but already ice crystals were forming on her skin. The air around her began to steam, as though she was suddenly somewhat colder than it. She began to shake, and then to moan in horror.

"Do you yield?"

Xandra managed to nod, and Grace judged this to be sufficient, so she released her.

"Who – the fuck – _are_ you?" the woman asked, shivering. She rubbed her arms hard, trying to get some warmth back into them.

"Someone who doesn't like her friends being fucked with," said Grace, pointedly.

"Alright – alright –"

Grace felt the bonds that had coiled around Morgan loosen and then fall away – as they did so, the cord around his wrist disintegrated and turned to dust. Xandra shot Grace a look of pure terror and then fled into the back.

"Any luck?" Grace asked, as Morgan shook his head, looking rather dazed.

"Uh – yeah, she said she's seen our guy." He frowned, eyes still a little glassy. "I'm pretty sure she did. Yeah, she must have…"

"I think I should probably drive," said Grace, and took the keys out of Morgan's jean pocket without any resistance. "You look like the lack of sleep is catching up with you."

"Maybe, yeah…" he said vaguely, and followed Grace out of the shop.

She piloted him back to the SUV, thinking she ought to have a conversation with Sergeant Barnum about Chuck and Xandra, and their dubious wares. With any luck she would be able to head the team going in to shake the place down – and if they were really fortunate, Chuck would be as lax about submitting his taxes as he was about his employees and consumer ethics.

0o0

"Morgan okay?" JJ asked, as Prentiss came back in.

"Had to actually put him in bed," she replied, pulling a face. "I think he was asleep on his feet the whole time."

JJ's eyebrows shot upwards. "Holy crap."

"Yeah, I've never seen him like that, said Prentiss worriedly. "Maybe he's coming down with something."

Aaron glanced at Pearce; whatever she wasn't telling him about their morning spent scouring weird magic shops must have had an impact. He wondered whether she would volunteer the information, or he'd have to press her.

"So, I've been talking to the bank two doors down from _Rossetti's Magic Emporium_," Rossi began, but Reid interrupted.

"Wait, they actually called it that?" he asked, pulling a face.

"Yeah, I know," said Pearce, glancing up from the records she and Reid had been combing through. "They're not even trying."

"What?" JJ asked.

"Oh, the slang in the – er – occult community for an untrustworthy shop," said Grace, sending Aaron a scant glance, "is a Goblin Market."

"Christina Rossetti wrote a poem called The Goblin Market," Reid added. "It's pretty famous."

"The owner's name is Charles Plumb," Pearce remarked. "Piece of work, that one. Not someone I'd imagine having a sophisticated sense of humour, but I guess you never know."

"Anyway," said Rossi, tolerantly. "The bank has CCTV, and I got this off their server for last Wednesday."

He showed them a still photograph of a man in a long black coat, striding along the street with several anonymous bags of the type _Rossetti's_ carried in one hand, and a dark, silver-tipped walking stick in the other. His hair was longer, tied back neatly behind his head, and he had a goatee – though the rest of the face was too fuzzy to make out properly.

"That's got to be him," said Prentiss.

"Yes," Grace agreed, pointing at the bag. "Those bulges at the bottom of the bag are definitely altar candles."

"Wednesday," Reid mused, flicking through the stack of receipts Pearce had brought back. "What's the timestamp for that?"

"14.53," Rossi told him.

"Not many customers that afternoon, thankfully," said Reid. "Here –"

He pointed one out to Pearce, who cast a slightly more informed eye over the list of purchases and nodded.

"Paid in cash, bought candles, liquorice root, sweet flag, something called compulsion oil, a decorative obsidian skull, an anathame –"

"A what?" JJ asked.

"It's a kind of sacred dagger," murmured Grace, running her finger down the list.

"– seven silver-lined, glass trinket boxes, seven large smoky quartz crystals, seven 'portable compulsion charms', whatever that means –"

"The USB sticks," said Aaron, turning it over in his hand. Garcia had already cloned it.

It was insane to think that one little thing could cause so much damage.

"And a pack each of dragon's blood, mullein, yew, cedar and wormwood," Reid finished.

"Actual dragon's blood? From an actual dragon?" Prentiss asked.

"It's the resin of various tropical tree species," Reid explained.

"Uh, there's a lot of sevens on that list," JJ observed. "So, seven victims?"

"Most likely," Rossi confirmed, and various people who had not been listening to Pearce groaned.

Aaron asked, "Is there a name?"

"No, just initials: DB," said Prentiss, reading over Reid's shoulder.

"DB, DB," Reid murmured. "I've seen a name with those initials… yes!" He pulled out another receipt from an earlier date. "Draven Blaize."

"Draven Blaize?" JJ echoed. "That's gotta be bogus, surely?"

"Undoubtedly," said Rossi. He nudged Pearce's elbow. "What?"

She was gazing at the CCTV image, a deep frown furrowing her brow. "The cane," she said, but didn't elaborate further.

"You think it could be a concealed weapon?" Rossi asked, but all Pearce said was 'Hmm'.

"What, like a sword cane?" Prentiss asked. "I wouldn't put it past this guy."

In the briefest of moments, when all the others were occupied with the documents and photograph, Reid and Pearce shared an eloquent look, and then both looked at Aaron. He inclined his head. They would have to find somewhere private to chat – without the rest of the team noticing. They were already beginning to comment on the slightly clandestine nature of his discussions with Pearce.

"Garcia, what have you got on the USB?" he asked, as the conversation had already devolved into an argument over the likelihood of them finding a sword.

"It's a fairly basic execution code," said Garcia, raising her head wearily above her laptop screen. "It piggybacks on the virus that he's using to stalk his victims."

Unusually sober, their faithful analyst was clearly running on fumes, now, but Aaron knew she was far too stubborn to leave her post just yet. He knew when not to push it.

"Kinda like the instructions for a computer game or an app," she continued. "The goal seems to be total suggestive control over an avatar, then a disgusting and entirely accurate pattern for all the cuts you would need to make to skin a human whole. And thank you all _so much_ for the fact that I now know that."

"Total control? Compulsion oil?" Prentiss said. "It sounds like something out of the Satanic Panic."

"You're not wrong," Rossi mused. "I can't see that working, though."

"We still don't know how he got the victims to just lie down and let him murder them," said JJ.

"What even is compulsion oil?" Garcia asked, having surfaced from the digital world in need of distraction.

"It's largely Calamus root," Pearce elaborated. "Which is a kind of sweet flag. And liquorice – and cayenne, sometimes. It's one of those weird ones that has hints of both the hoodoo and European traditions. Some people call it 'bend over oil'."

Prentiss and JJ shared looks of disgust.

"None of those things can actually compel a person to do something," Reid pointed out. "Except maybe wash their hands."

"Hypnosis?" Garcia suggested. "Something through the screen, maybe?"

"You can't make someone do something against their basic principles, though," Prentiss argued. "So, they'd never hurt themselves."

"He's got to be controlling them with a gun," said Rossi.

Again, Aaron looked at Pearce, who glanced at the USB stick in his hand. He put it down on the table.

0o0

"So, the unsub triggers the compulsion charm remotely, through the virus," said Grace, quietly. "Then he lays out all the markings and the candles and stuff, and the victims just take off all their clothes and lie down in the middle of it."

"I'm having a hard time believing anyone would just lie there and let someone murder them," said Hotch, speculatively.

"Don't underestimate what magic can make people do," Grace warned.

They were gathered in the small kitchen of the Homicide Department, making the slowest ever three cups of hot beverage, ever.

Spencer kept expecting the others to come over and join them. Rossi, at the very least, seemed to be keeping what he thought was an unobtrusive eye on the conversation.

"Still, I –"

Grace huffed, looked at Spencer, and said, "Do you trust me?"

"Of course," he said, without thinking, and then immediately regretted it. "Wait, why?"

"Because you're going to pick up the bottle of tomato juice behind you and drink it."

There was something different about her voice, he realised. Oddly compelling.

"But I hate tomato juice," he said, confused. He wasn't even thirsty – but then, he sort of was.

His confusion deepened exponentially when he found himself unscrewing the lid and taking a large gulp of the squelchy, disgusting liquid inside.

She touched his arm and suddenly the compulsion to keep drinking it evaporated. Appalled, he threw the bottle in the trash with some force.

"What the hell, Grace?" he sputtered angrily, as she gestured at him in a 'see' kind of way.

"Sorry."

"That was – oh God – revolting. How the hell did you –?" He resisted the urge to scrape his tongue with his fingers. "_Why_ would you do that?"

Looking faintly apologetic, she passed him his coffee and he took a big gulp of it.

"God, that was – wait. Have you ever done that to me before?" he asked, an unpleasant thought having struck him.

"No, I never have. I swear on my magic."

He nodded slowly. He had read about oaths like that in a book by Lemuel Grey. They were the kind a witch took deadly seriously.

Hotch was watching them with a curious and slightly fearful expression.

"That was just the Bearing or the Voice," she explained. "It's one part suggestion, one part intent. And next time it would be harder, because you'd have recognised it as external control, so you'd be able to fight it."

"Could a practitioner ignore something like that?" Hotch asked, warily.

"Yes, almost all of them, if they saw it coming – which means our victims are not practitioners. Anyone else would struggle. I mean, the depths to which Reid loathes tomato juice have yet to be plumbed."

"It's foul and abhorrent sludge, and I hate you right now," he hissed.

"And the whammy that sales girl put on Morgan was easily four times as strong as what I just did," Grace continued, ignoring him. "Neither of you are particularly weak willed."

"What was it?" Hotch asked, his frown deepening.

Spencer followed suit; there had obviously been something off with Morgan when they came back an hour or so before.

"Short-order love spell," said Grace dismissively. "Persuasive, but it would have worn off eventually." She took in their expressions. "Don't worry, I made her take it off."

"How?" Hotch asked, a dangerous tone in his voice.

For a split second, Grace looked mildly sheepish, but then the expression was replaced by a kind of professional arrogance that was unfamiliar.

"I merely suggested to her that it would be in her best interests to do so," she said, and Spencer suspected she was wording that particular sentence very carefully. "And she yielded to my superior argument."

From his somewhat icy expression, he suspected Hotch thought so too.

"Is he going to be okay?" Spencer asked, before their boss could persuade her to incriminate herself further.

"Yeah, he'll sleep it off," said Grace, almost flippantly. "Probably sleep through both his alarms tomorrow, too and wake up very cranky – and hungry. He'll be fine. Anyway, my point is, this guy can absolutely control a person this way. It's standard nefarious wizard crap."

"And then he sets off the USB code, which flays them alive?" Hotch asked, as Spencer wondered what the other unpleasant applications of such compulsion charms could be.

"Yes. In person. He collects the essence – the soul – and seals it in those tawdry trinket boxes, ready for the solstice." She grimaced. "I still don't know why he's keeping the skin, though, unless he thinks it'll help him with the binding."

"Maybe that really is a trophy," Hotch mused. "And the cane?"

"Could be a staff," she said. "Which is problematic. Think of it as an amplification tool. If he has it on him, it'll make him more dangerous."

"Can you counter it?"

She made a non-committal sort of sound, and Hotch nodded. "Okay, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it – and Pearce?" he added, as he turned to head back to the group. "If you use that Bearing thing on any of the team again, you're suspended. Understood?"

"Yes, boss." She waited until he was out of earshot to add, "Though, honestly, I doubt you'd be able to prove it."

There was a brief, contemplative silence, in which Spencer wondered where all the logic and rationality of his younger days had gone – then decided he knew exactly what had happened to them, and the phenomenon was distinctly British and witch shaped. He glowered at Grace, who had the grace (hah!) to attempt to look sorry about forcing him to drink something close to poison*.

"I'm going to be tasting that all day," he complained.

"You shouldn't trust a witch with trouble in her heart," she said lightly, with the kind of smile that made him want to forgive her immediately.

Which was exactly what she wanted, of course, so he merely deepened his glower.

"I really am sorry," she said, possibly guessing that the compulsion part of the equation was giving him cause for some concern.

This time he believed her, but he wasn't about to let her know that. "Hmm," he said. "Okay, right."

He saw a few strains of worry cross her expression, until she figured out he was teasing her and she relaxed a little. His heart gave a little squeeze at that.

"How can I make it up to you?" she asked, tone just on the edge of flirtation, and he subjected her to a particularly evil and triumphant grin.

There was one thing to hand that she hated the taste of as much as he did tomato juice. Today, revenge would not taste particularly sweet – for her, at least.

Spencer thrust his mug of strong, black, sugary coffee into her hand, enjoying the way her face immediately fell. "Drink!"

0o0

*Spencer was inclined to be somewhat dramatic when it came to tomato juice.


	22. The Witching Hour

**Note: fair warning, I know this whole shebang has been gory, but the mid-section of this chapter is especially grisly, and I should probably apologise for what fell out of my brain this time. Hopefully the minor fluff makes up for it!**

**0o0**

**Essential Listening: Electricity, by Suede**

"Okay, I've been doing some math," said Prentiss, when Grace had managed to get the foul taste of Reid's coffee mostly out of her mouth. "Based on what we know from lividity and the preliminary autopsies, he seems to be killing at the same time of day."

"When?" asked Rossi.

"Between six and ten p.m.," she replied, and then rolled her eyes as Reid immediately double checked her working.

"That's very consistent, considering he'd have to wait for people to be alone," said Hotch, quirking an eyebrow.

"Well, I'm assuming he's got eyes on all his potential victims, and he picks one who he can access," said JJ. She frowned. "I think we should run a press conference. If we can warn people about the stalking software, his victim pool might dry up."

Hotch nodded. "Do it. Garcia?"

"Yes, my liege?"

Grace watched as the shadow of a smile flickered over his face. Really, it was impossible to remain entirely grim in her magnificent presence.

"Is there anything we can do to limit his access to the people who have already been exposed to the virus?"

"There is and there will be," she said, looking momentarily puzzled. "I will think on it. God, I need sleep!"

"You can go back to the hotel, if –"

"No way in hell! Don't even think about it, boss-man, because the answer will be no!"

"Alright," he said, and this time his smile was more real.

Grace patted her friend fondly on the back, but Garcia didn't even look up from her computer.

"If he's killing at the same time of day then he could be on a regular shift pattern," Rossi proposed.

"But not right now," Prentiss argued, and Hotch nodded.

"With this level of organisation and preparation, and the amount of time he would have to spend with his victims there is no way he would be able to hold down a job," he remarked.

"He could be on leave," Grace suggested. "This is a very specific festival. Same date every year. Chances are he'll have been planning this for some time, so he'd know in advance to book time off."

"Exactly," said Rossi. "And we all know how hard habits are to shake. Maybe he kills at that time of day, because that's when he's used to not working."

"It's also a time when the victims are more likely to be using their computers," Spencer observed.

Grace pulled out her pocket watch. "If you're right about this, we have three hours."

"Okay, I think I've got it," said Garcia. "As you all know, I am the mistress of all things digital, and this guy – this guy – will not beat me! Now, our man of mystery is spoofing his IPs by rewriting the headers within the IP packets, trying to confuse and befuddle me – and it's sort of working, because I can't figure out where he's coming from, but I _do_ know he's pretending to be coming from somewhere else. I can't mess with his local network – but, I have his servers, so I can send him down a rabbit hole and null-route everything. A veritable warren of rabbit holes!"

"I don't even know what you're saying," said Rossi, looking mildly pained.

"The virus is already on the potential victims' computers, okay?" said Garcia, waving her arms expressively. "But to access the webcams he has to do that from _his_ computer – and the thing that lets his computer talk to their computers is the servers. So, if I turn his servers into a Swiss-cheese of data-burying black holes, I can block all out-bound access!"

"And stop him seeing into their houses," Prentiss exclaimed, cottoning on.

"Will that be enough?" Garcia asked, looking worried. "Until I can identify his home network, I can't shut him down, but –"

"It's the best we can do, right now," said Hotch, decisively. "It's a risk to disrupt him, but given how regularly he is killing, and that he has a date-based goal orientation, we need to knock him off his schedule."

"Why is it a risk?" Garcia asked, though from her rather owlish expression, and the higher pitch of her voice, Grace suspected she had already worked it out.

"Uh, because he's obsessed with his task," said Prentiss told her, with a glance at the others. "Divergence from that will anger him, and he might well slip up –"

"That's good, right?" Garcia pressed, aware there was something they weren't saying.

"Yeah, but it also means we likely won't be able to save the victim he's selected for today," said Rossi.

"I'm going to make it worse?" she asked, looking horrified.

"No one is doing this but the unsub," said Grace, firmly. "And it's awful, but in all likelihood, nothing we do now will prevent the next victim's murder."

"But – uh – what you're doing might mean we can save the one tomorrow," said Reid quickly, as their technical analyst subsided unhappily.

She closed her mouth, sighed miserably, and sat back down. "Okay. Helping. That's what I'm doing."

0o0

They got the call at half past six, an hour after shift change, and firmly within Emily's proposed window of activity. Garcia had taken it pretty hard, retreating sullenly behind her screen as soon as Detective Singh had delivered the news. She appeared to have resigned herself to it, however, because by the time they were pulling into the cordoned off street, she was already on the radio, relaying information.

"_Mike Hernandez, thirty-six, Hispanic,"_ she listed, her usual chirpiness distinctly lacking. _"Born in San Diego, moved here with his older sister when he was seventeen, after their parents' divorce. Lived here ever since. Has held several long-term jobs as a barman in various watering holes in Meridian, all of which get good reviews on Trip Advisor."_

"Anything that might tell us why he was singled out?" Rossi asked, pulling the keys out of the ignition.

"_Nothing yet. Although, from his bank account, the details of which the impressively efficient Detective Singh had already given me before you left, I can tell you he had two major passions: a three-year-old German Shepherd who, according to the insurance payments, is called Kubo; and romance."_

"Romance?" Emily asked, exchanging a puzzled look with Rossi.

"_He bought a lot of flowers, mostly roses, mostly red,"_ Garcia explained. _"Also wine, chocolates, and small trinkets – the kind of gift you'd give to a girlfriend. Only, get this – they're all personalised, and they all have different women's names on them."_

"So his hobby isn't romance," said Rossi, with a quirk of his mouth that suggested particular knowledge and experience. "It's sex."

"With as many partners as he can get," said Emily.

"I'm gonna guess this guy represents desirability, charisma – lust."

Emily nodded. "Hey, Garcia, have you got his driver's license?"

"_Yeah, why?"_

"Is he handsome?"

"_I mean, he's got nothing on the chocolate chiselled God of perfection that we work with, but he's pretty hot,"_ she said, after a moment of contemplation. _"Got a sort of evil twin goatee thing going on that wouldn't work for most people. Only Rossi and this guy."_

Rossi rolled his eyes.

"_Or, I guess, he did have…"_ She sighed, sounding miserable. _"I'm going to get some coffee and some food, and I don't want to be called for half an hour."_

She hung up, and they got out of the Suburban, joining the rest of their team, who were pulling on forensic booties and – unusually – Tyvec suits.

Detective Singh, who had got there a little before them in order to direct proceedings, looked particularly ashen. He was escorting a grey-faced colleague out of the house. The other detective hurried around the corner of a van and vomited profusely.

"It's…" Singh shook his head. "It's a bad one. Worse than the other scenes."

"Worse, how?" asked Grace, who was gallantly letting Reid steady himself on her so he could get his booties on without falling over.

Singh fixed her with a harrowed sort of stare. "Just… worse."

Emily shared a dark look with Hotch, zipped up her suit and followed the others into the house. Almost immediately, she heard Reid – who was just ahead – whisper, "Oh God," under his breath.

Then the stench hit her. The other scenes had been veritable lakes of blood, flooding their senses with the sour tang of iron. Although that was the same, here the sharp smack of haemoglobin was accompanied by an undercurrent of something deeper and more fragrant – possibly some of the herbs listed on the receipt they had found – and on top of that…

"I hate burnt flesh," Grace remarked, in a low, pained voice, as she and Emily allowed two forensic techs to navigate past them. "It always makes me think of barbecue ribs."

Emily's stomach rolled over at the thought, and she nodded, keeping her teeth tightly together. That was always the problem: the body was conditioned to interpret cooked meat as a delicious smell, and before you knew it you would begin salivating – and then you'd remember why. Deciding that a temporarily vegetarian diet would be an excellent idea for the foreseeable future, she and Grace walked side by side into the open-plan living space. It might have been a nice place at one point, but it was rather hard to tell.

"Hell's bells," her friend murmured, shaken.

Emily took a moment to steady herself. Her pulse roared over-loud in her ears, then it subsided as her training kicked in. This was awful, but she had seen the full spectrum of awful, and today she was on the front line of it again: the victim who was decorating the walls deserved justice.

A second or two passed in horrified silence as everyone readjusted their minds to cope with the carnage in front of them.

"Well, Garcia knocked him off his game, alright," said Rossi, in a hollow voice.

Emily nodded, numbly. Suddenly she appreciated exactly why Hotch had looked so haunted after the first scene. There was something about this one – more than there had been with Bill Waters. Something _other_. She couldn't place it.

The late Mike Hernandez had not been left arranged in the same way as the previous victims. He had been skinned, and there was blood everywhere, but the level of violence in this kill was extraordinary. The removal had not gone as planned: he had been butchered, and not very cleanly. He was also in a number of pieces. Some of them still had recognisable skin attached.

"Scorch marks," said Reid, in a tight voice that suggested that this scene would be entering directly into his regular sequence of nightmares. He pointed at several, large burns on the wall, where the wallpaper had bubbled and flaked. Above them, the coving had melted in long, shiny streams, streaking down the wall, mingling with the blood.

There were scorch marks on what was left of the victim, too.

"What in the name of God did that?" someone asked, and Emily realised it was her. She felt oddly disconnected from herself.

Reid's face, which was already a mask of horror, darkened. He narrowed his eyes. "Guys, there are too many – uh – there's – I think we may have multiple victims here."

"At least two," said Grace, tersely. "Well, two human."

"What?" Detective Singh asked, as five pairs of eyes swivelled in her direction.

She pointed at a lump of something in the corner (of someone, Emily reminded herself, sternly). "That part has fur."

"Hernandez has a dog," said Rossi, slowly. "Kubo."

"Had," said Hotch, darkly.

"Who kills the dog, for fuck's sake?" Grace complained angrily, and nobody picked her up on her cursing.

_Bastard_, thought Emily. "He was also a serial romantic," she recalled aloud. "Fancied himself as a bit of a Casanova."

"Then perhaps our unsub interrupted a date," the detective suggested, swallowing rather hard.

"Which meant he couldn't control his victim," Hotch added.

"The disruption to his ritual enraged him," said Reid, following after the fashion.

"And this is the result," Rossi finished.

"He must have access to chemicals," said Emily, looking around. "I can't think of anything else that leaves burns like this but doesn't touch anything else."

"If one victim is Hernandez and the other is his date, can we assume he successfully completed his ritual?"

The question had been addressed to the team as a whole, but Hotch had been looking at Grace as he spoke.

"If he hasn't, he'll be looking for a new victim," Reid reflected.

Grace pinched the bridge of her nose so hard it left two red nail marks, livid against the twin white rosettes her fingers had created. "He got what he needed," she said shortly, and without further explanation, she turned and walked outside.

Spencer, always attuned to the moods of their resident Brit, whether they were talking or not, immediately peeled off and followed her; after a few beats, so did Hotch. Emily met Rossi's eye, across a sea of what might otherwise be described as blackened meat.

"Something is going on there," she said in an undertone, after Detective Singh had broken off to liaise with the coroner, who was looking around with an air of unsettled professional bafflement.

Rossi inclined his head. "Hotch has been off since this case started," he remarked. "Pearce, too."

Emily nodded, thinking of the way the other agent had simply announced that there would be more victims, and then been handed the profile. "Hey, maybe she's seen a case like this before," she suggested.

"If that's the case," said Rossi carefully, "then why wouldn't she just tell us about it?"

"Maybe she can't?" Emily pursed her lips. She couldn't think of another reason – or another _good_ reason, at least. "I've worked things that required me to sign a none-disclosure notice."

"So have I," Rossi mused.

There were many events – dark, distant, destabilising – in her own life that she wouldn't want to revisit – and a lot that she was simply forbidden from revisiting. There were some things she simply would never tell the rest of her team, no matter the circumstances. That she _could_ never tell them. It wasn't that difficult to imagine that there might be situations in Grace's past that were the same.

And that raised other questions: if Hotch knew, for operational purposes, why did Reid? The three of them had separated from the group several times over the course of the day, and that couldn't be ignored. And why did they feel the need to be so clandestine? Did they think a room full of profilers wouldn't notice?

Rossi met her gaze, and she read the same questions in him that were on the tip of her own brain.

"Do you ever get the impression that she left a lot behind when she left London?"

Emily gave a noncommittal shrug, but her eyes followed Rossi's to the window, through which she could see the three other agents engaged in what looked like a hurried and urgent discussion.

"Yeah," she found herself saying. "I'm guessing, more than we think."

0o0

They had gathered outside, ultimately. It was that kind of crime scene.

"Found a wallet in the bedroom," said Rossi, handing the evidence bag over to Detective Singh. "Our second victim's name is Cecilia Lewis, thirty-one. African American. Geologist for the USGS."

"Poor woman," Emily remarked. "Wrong place, wrong time."

"We any closer to figuring out how they were killed?" asked Detective Singh. "Because I've been doing this for fourteen years, and I have never seen anything like this. The ME's assistant said something about explosives, but he's also muttering about how it has to be impossible. I think he's gonna retrain."

Swallowing, Spencer glanced at Grace from under his eyelashes. Although she was paying attention to the huddle, she had one ear and one eye on the apartment building behind her.

Once they were safely out of earshot of the others, she had told him and Hotch all about the screaming thing that the male victim had become. It was worse than the others, possibly because he'd witnessed (post mortem) what had happened to Lewis and Kubo.

"Well, Hernandez was likely controlled somehow, the same way as the others, and flayed alive," Prentiss speculated. "Then the dismemberment was post-mortem."

"And Lewis?"

"We'll know more after the autopsy," said Hotch, effectively shutting the line of questioning down.

Spencer tried not to look relieved. Keeping things from his colleagues made him feel distinctly uncomfortable, particularly on a case, but there wasn't really another option. He wasn't about to 'out' Grace in front of his friends, even if he thought they ultimately wouldn't care about her weirder talents. He didn't enjoy lying to them, but it wasn't his choice to make.

Also, quite frankly, if they told Detective Singh what was really going on, they would look insane.

_Maybe less so, after this scene,_ he thought.

"The candles, the sigils and the working area were the same," said Rossi, glancing at Grace as well. "So we know he managed to control them long enough to do that."

"Or he did it before they got in," Spencer suggested. "That takes time, and when I talked to the building manager, he said the screaming started about ten minutes after he saw Hernandez and Lewis arrive."

"That's another difference," Grace remarked, returning her attention to the group. "The candles weren't burned down nearly so far, either – did you notice? So he had less time for his ritual, and he knew it. The screaming alerted the neighbours – which is another first. Multiple victims. Rage." She sighed, an ugly expression on her face. "It almost feels like he's devolving."

Spencer nodded. They all knew the signs – and apart from the occult component, he was exhibiting all the classic symptoms of a sociopath who was beginning to lose all control.

"Let's hope we didn't push him too far," said Hotch, after a moment of concerned silence. He gave a heavy sigh. "Alright, Reid, Rossi, go back to the coroner, see how far they've got with the other autopsies. Prentiss, you and Pearce talk to the neighbours, see if anyone saw our guy."

"Yes, boss."

"Detective Singh, I think it might be useful for us to set up a tip-line," he continued, and Singh nodded.

"Alright. We've done that before, but I'll coordinate with your Agent Jareau." He gave them a weary smile. "I wouldn't mind one of her, if you ever find a spare."

Spencer smiled to himself, as he and Rossi walked away. Singh had seemed exhausted and at the very end of his weird limit for the entire time they had been there, but anyone who could see how awesome his best friend was, was going to be fine.

He stifled a yawn. Though he was used to being awake for long stretches before inevitably having to make himself step away, nearly two full days of wakefulness was a lot to ask. He had a suspicion none of them were going to be conscious on the jet home after this case, despite the horrors they had seen that might otherwise keep them up.

Everyone was beginning to look a little haggard.

"You gonna make it?" Rossi teased, though when he turned to look he could tell that the older agent was half serious.

"I'm good," he said, with a half-smile. "I – uh – should probably take my contacts out before they glue themselves to my eyeballs, but…"

Rossi chuckled. "Ah, to be young. Unlike you, I both need and value my beauty sleep."

0o0

Spencer blinked owlishly up at Prentiss, who had shaken him awake. "Uh… sorry."

Foggily, he realised that not only had he fallen asleep in the back of the SUV on the way back from an extended visit to the coroner's office, he had remained asleep while decisions had been made to deposit him at the hotel. He rubbed his face, embarrassed, and nearly knocked his glasses off. He had entirely forgotten he was wearing them.

"It's okay," she said, with amusement. "Hotch wants you, Grace and Garcia to get some rest. We took the last shift."

He nodded, numbly, and eased himself out of the car.

Spencer joined the two other women on the sidewalk, taking solace in the fact that they looked as exhausted as he felt.

"You look like death warmed over, Pretty Boy," said Morgan, pausing to press a kiss into Garcia's hair on his way out of the foyer.

She clung to his shirt. "Can't you stay and keep me warm?"

"Nu-uh, Babygirl. I'm sorry," he said fondly, detaching himself. "I gotta eat – and then I gotta get back up to speed."

"I'm basically a cab, tonight," Emily complained. "Come _on_ Morgan."

"Alright, alright, hold your pretty horses, Princess," he retorted, and Prentiss rolled her eyes.

Grace raised her eyebrows. "Mate, you just said that to Emily, out loud. Good luck with that."

They left them bickering by the SUV and staggered into the elevator without even a glance towards reception.

"I am _so insanely tired_," Garcia complained, linking arms with both of them just to stay upright.

Spencer put up no resistance whatsoever. Right now, if they were nowhere near the hotel, he would have happily gone to sleep on his feet, in a sort of upright, three-person lean, but fortunately, somewhere nearby there was a warm (and if he knew hotels – which he did – overwarm) bed to fall into.

"We got a partial print, by the way," said Grace, from Garcia's other side, and then yawned expansively.

It woke him up a bit. "From Hernandez's apartment?"

"Yeah, on a torn bit of card, probably from a book of matches," she said tiredly.

"That's – uh – that's good," he said, aware that there were other case related things he ought to be thinking about, but unable to make the mental connections in order to do so.

"The techs are processing it," Garcia offered. "I just… I just wish we didn't have to push him to get it."

"It's not your fault, you know," said Grace, and Spencer gave Garcia's arm a squeeze.

"The – the only person responsible is Draven Blaize," he added. "Or whatever his real name is."

"Oh, you two sweethearts are adorable," she said, though he could hear the guilt and sadness in her voice. "I'll be okay in a couple of hours – and then we can bury this evil weirdo, and I can start making up for it and rebalancing my karma."

They disentangled and stepped out onto the fifth floor.

"You know, next time baby Hotch has a school sports day, we should volunteer for the four-legged race," she joked, as they paused outside her door, but it was half-hearted.

"C'mere," said Grace, and wrapped her arms around her.

After a moment's contemplation, Spencer joined in, squashing their technical analyst in the middle of a many-armed hug.

"Careful," she said, sniffling a little as they broke apart. "Or I'll fall asleep right here."

"Get some rest, Supergirl," said Grace, and she nodded vaguely, pushing open her door.

The two remaining agents fell into step together, in an easy sort of sleep-deprived companionship that made Spencer long for simpler days of uncomplicated company, without gory murders to solve – even though he knew they'd both get horribly bored without them.

_It would just be nice,_ he thought wearily, _to sleep in with you, every once in a while. A lazy Sunday, here and there. Curled up together, reading – tea for you, coffee for me. Blankets and books and bare feet. That would be paradise…_

"Right," said Grace, and he realised they'd reached their doors, which were opposite one another, this time.

Spencer frowned. Now that it came to it, he found he was disinclined to be without her. Before she could let herself into her own room, he took her hand; she peered down at it for a moment, looking vaguely puzzled, but she didn't let go.

"Um," he said, intelligently, unable to resist rubbing his thumb over her knuckles.

It seemed like an age since she had joined him beneath a desk in the library of the local college and he had given in to the mad urge to kiss her again, but in reality it had only been the day before. He wondered if she'd object if he tried it again.

He didn't feel like trying to form proper sentences, so he jerked his head towards the door to his room and punctuated the question with his eyebrows.

That slow, easy smile that Spencer kept in his heart spread across her face. "Oh, yes please," she said softly, and to his immense pleasure, rested her head against his shoulder. "I thought you'd never ask."

Grinning tiredly, he opened the door, threw his wallet, cell phone, spectacles and key card on the table and started fumbling with his gun belt. He was so tired that his fingers didn't seem to be working, however. Grace's were, though, and he was still struggling with it by the time her belt, pocket watch and cuffs were on the back of the chair, so she gently knocked his hands aside. Spencer let her, chuckling at the feel of what might have been quite an intimate act, if they weren't both so damn tired.

"Thanks. Thank you," he mumbled, as she succeeded in removing it and draped it next to hers.

By way of answer, she tapped him gently on the nose, the way she had in a sweltering New Orleans club, a lifetime ago. Deciding to make her laugh, too, he kissed her and then swept her off her feet, depositing her none-too-gently on the bed before flopping down beside her. Pleased with the effect, he pulled her close while she was still giggling and stifled her laughter with his mouth.

Grace wound an arm around his waist, tangling her legs with his.

She looked tired and happy when they broke apart. Her hair was shorter now, but just as delightfully unruly as ever, crowning her slightly impish face with a wild halo. Spencer tucked a honey-coloured curl behind her ear, breathing in the strawberry and tea scent that was all Grace.

_I'm home, _he thought, unable to keep his lips from quirking upward once more. _This is home. Right here. With you._

Grace made a contented sort of sound that sounded like an echo of his heart, and murmured, "Feels like –" Her smile grew sweeter and he felt her fingers curl into the placket of his shirt, grazing the skin of his chest between the buttonholes. "Feels like I'm home."

0o0

Neither one of them had taken their shoes off when they crashed out – they hadn't even bothered to get under the covers. Both things that came in handy when, a scant few hours later, their phones chimed in unison.

However long had passed between falling asleep and whatever this fresh problem was, was absolutely not long enough.

Grace groaned into Spencer's chest, burying her head more firmly into his shirt. He'd dropped his phone on the table, she dimly recalled, so it wasn't a tremendous surprise when she felt him slip his hand into her back pocket and groggily retrieve her phone – a fairly bold move she couldn't imagine him having tried before, even in the weeks they had been sort-of-dating the year before. She put it down to tiredness – and the slight change in the nature of their relationship that the months apart had wrought.

"Cheeky blighter," she mumbled, and smiled despite the horrible lack of sleep.

"Uh – well, mine's all the way over there," he murmured into her hair, not sounding remotely contrite, and read the text over her shoulder.

"No, no!"

She felt the jolt of shock run through him, and woke part of the rest of the way up. "What is it?"

"Garcia," he said, already rolling out of bed. "She thinks there's someone in her room."

"_What?_"

He pushed the phone into her hand and grabbed his – which lit up with the same text – and his gun. Grace sprang haphazardly up, nearly turning her ankle over in her haste. She was almost painfully awake, now. A glance at her phone told her that it was perilously close to the witching hour. She dropped it onto the bed and dove for her things.

"She's hiding in the closet at the far end of the corridor," he told her.

Grace shoved her badge and cuffs into her pockets. There was no time for the belt. "Glasses," she hissed, and Spencer made a noise that she would have interpreted in anyone else as strangled swearing and briefly turned back.

Grace had her hands free, so she let Spencer take point; gun up, he gave her the nod and together they moved out into the hall. It was gloomy, since only the security lights were on at this time of night, but then they hadn't turned the light on in Spencer's room, so their eyes didn't take long to adjust.

The closet was part way between their rooms and Garcia's, so they moved swiftly and silently along the corridor until they reached it. Spencer provided cover, while Grace whispered their friend's name and pushed the door open as quietly as she could. Garcia was inside, wearing hot pink pyjamas and a white, fluffy cardigan, a mop raised above her head. She was trembling with fear, but ready to defend herself, if necessary.

The mop lowered immediately and she flung herself towards Grace, babbling urgently in frightened whispers.

"I had a nightmare, and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went out for snacks, and when I came back, the door was open and there were noises inside, and all I could think about was what he does to the bodies, and –"

Before she could make any more noise, Grace grabbed her arm and put a finger to her lips. Garcia gulped, took a deep breath, and nodded, plainly terrified.

"Text Hotch," Grace mouthed, and Garcia showed her the screen: she had, rather sensibly, texted everyone. "Tell them we're with you and not to call until you do," Grace whispered, her mouth close to her friend's ear, hoping she would think not to included them in the message and make their phones buzz.

Just outside the door, Reid moved back slightly, getting them in his eyeline. He motioned for Grace to take up a secondary position, but before she could Garcia grabbed her shoulder and made a gun shape with her hand, shaking her head.

Spencer caught the movement, swallowed, then managed to convey – through facial expression alone, and without Garcia realising – that he knew Grace didn't need a weapon, and that if this was their unsub, this situation would not end well without serious back up of a slightly arcane kind.

She nodded, and fell into formation with him, wafting Garcia temporarily and unhappily back into the closet.

Grace hunkered into the familiar law-enforcement crouch, adrenaline making her pulse sound like a snare drum inside her head, and moved with Spencer to within a couple of feet of Garcia's door, which was ajar.

There was a strange, blue glow emanating from within, that one might mistake for the light of a late-night TV, but Grace felt it before she saw it. Barring Spencer's progress with her hand, she took another step and heard the tell-tale hum of the inexperienced practitioner impatiently waiting to cause serious harm, just beyond what ought to be possible to hear.

Magic was hard to contain when you weren't properly in control of yourself, and this guy was poor at that even when he wasn't radiating with fury.

Reid shot her a questioning glance and she mouthed, "It's him."

Wordlessly, they fell back, retreating as far as the cupboard, where Garcia was anxiously waiting.

"We have to call Hotch," he murmured, just loud enough for them both to hear.

"We have to _go_," Grace hissed. "Do not engage, remember?"

"We _need_ back up," Spencer insisted, as quietly as he could, but Grace shook her head urgently, willing him to remember her profile.

She saw understanding flicker through his eyes as Garcia whispered, "Why wouldn't we want back up? _He exploded three people!_"

Both Supervisory Special Agents looked at her and then back at each other. There was little to no chance the man they had been chasing had happened upon Garcia's room accidentally, only a few hours after she had turned his servers into digital Swiss cheese.

"Too many people here," Grace murmured.

Spencer nodded minutely and glanced again at Garcia. "We need to get her out," he mouthed back.

"Where?" Penelope hissed. Her grip on Grace's arm grew painfully tight.

_Stairs,_ thought Grace.

Apparently Spencer had had the same idea as he shot a swift look behind him and moved more fully into the hall.

"I'll cover you," he whispered, gun still up. "Go."

Grace pulled Garcia with her. "Stay close to me. Don't make noise. Go for the stairs."

Her friend nodded, terrified, and the three of them moved as quickly as they could to the end of the hallway furthest from her room. Grace's stomach dropped as they reached it: it was a fire exit, and as such, was connected to the alarms. Any loss of contact would set it off – and she knew from experience that there was no magical way of circumventing that.

_I can slow him down_, she thought._ But by how much? And they're going to see…_

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Reid clock the problem, shoot her a worried look and nod, ready to move fast.

Grace leaned close to Garcia's ear and whispered. "As soon as we pull the door, he'll be out of the room and he might follow us, so we're going to have to fucking run. Okay?"

Garcia closed her eyes, blinking panicked tears away, then nodded.

"Be ready to take cover if you have to, and if we fall behind, just keep running."

The technical analyst redoubled her grip on Grace's arm and shook her head emphatically at that, but something of the fury that was building inside her must have registered on her face because she subsided, looking wretched.

Brown eyes met blue, for a fraction of a second.

_Ready?_

He looked at Garcia, then back at her, visibly steeling himself.

They pushed the door.


	23. Stormcrow

**Essential Listening: Control, by Halsey**

_Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!_

The fire alarm screamed all around them, along with the sounds of a hotel full of people beginning to stir, but mostly what Penelope could hear was her own breathing. Reid was keeping himself behind them, ready to raise his gun if necessary, but for the moment they were just flat out running down the emergency stairs. Grace was marginally ahead of her, dragging her along by her arm with a grim expression on her face.

Penelope wasn't a field agent, but from the few training exercises she had watched and the hundred times she had been on the far end of the radio when the shit hit the fan, she knew absolutely that neither Reid nor Grace were strictly adhering to protocol. She didn't know why, and she hadn't really got the time to think about it, but they were both usually shit hot on the rules – which meant there was a reason that right now, they weren't following them.

And that scared the hell out of her.

Above them, a door slammed back against the wall with an awful crack that made her stumble. She felt Reid's hand on her shoulder pushing her urgently forward as their pursuer roared with anger.

Penelope yelped, ducking instinctively as something smacked against the wall behind them. Some_thing_ and not a bullet, because although it sent up a spray of plaster dust, it didn't sound like a gunshot, and somehow – somehow – it felt _bigger_.

"Go!" Reid hissed, and then the pressure of his hand was gone.

A moment later, the thunder of an actual gunshot in close quarters gave her an extra burst of speed. It was so _loud_!

Ahead, Grace whirled around, shoving Penelope behind her, but Reid was already running to catch up. He had taken a shot, Penelope realised, simply to give them a few extra moments of cover.

Together, they rounded the corner of the penultimate flight of stairs and she caught sight of the damage to the wall above: definitely not a bullet hole. Careening down the last few steps, she wracked her brains for anything that might have made a concrete surface crack like that and came up distressingly empty.

_I get why they don't want back up_, she thought suddenly, around the deafening sound of her own heartbeat. _They know back up can't handle this. Which means _we_ can't handle this. Oh fuck, oh fuck oh, fuck! Which means – which means – we've got to get this guy away from the people in the hotel. The people in – who should be pouring out of the – out of the –_

"Why – isn't – anyone – out – here?" she wheezed, as they reached the bottom. "The – alarms –"

Reid shot Grace an indecipherable glance, but otherwise, neither of them answered.

"He – did – something – to the – doors?" Penelope guessed, heart in her mouth.

"No," said Grace.

_But that would mean –_

For a horrible moment, she thought the door they were making for would be locked, and that he was driving them into a trap, but mercifully, it wasn't. The acrid orange of the streetlights in the parking lot spilled inside.

Had the door ahead already been open? Was this how he'd got in?

She was sure she could hear other people banging on the emergency doors on the landings above them – but there wasn't time to worry about it because her friends were bodily dragging her through the door to the parking lot.

They ran outside, then Grace's presence vanished and she fell behind. Reid didn't let go of Penelope's arm, pulling her forward until they reached the relative cover of someone's minivan.

Penelope turned just in time to see Grace slamming the emergency door shut behind them, then sprinting to catch up.

"Which – way?" Reid panted, gun up to provide covering fire in case Blaize got through it.

When_ he got through it_, Penelope thought desperately. _That's not going to hold him for long. Oh God! Oh Fuck! What the hell do we do?_

She wished Derek was with them – and then fervently wished he didn't show up and get himself mixed up in it, too.

Penelope looked wildly around, but Grace was already reviewing their options with an operational calm that right now she would have paid someone to be able to feel. Further along the street, the other patrons of the hotel were spilling out onto the street, looking confused and disoriented, but otherwise unhurt.

"Not that way," said Grace, and Penelope privately agreed.

As much as she desperately wanted to go hide in a crowd right now, she had seen what this unsub was prepared to do when he was angry, and she didn't think a handful of innocent bystanders would stop him doing whatever it was the son of a bitch had come here to do.

_To me. He targeted my room. And now Reid and Grace are in the middle of this with me. This is all my goddamn fault!_

"Here," Grace shouted, and one of them – Penelope had no idea which – grabbed her arm and yanked her in the other direction.

Her lungs were burning with each fresh gulp of air and her legs were beginning to slow down of their own accord. The painful realisation that she would not be able to run much further, no matter how close their pursuer was, was beginning to steal over her. Penelope blinked hard, trying to get rid of the panicked tears that were filling her eyes.

_I have got to get in better shape_, she thought. _If I live through this, I promise I'll go to the gym! I'll cut down my calories! I'll go to Pilates with JJ! I'll go running with Derek! I'll book salsa lessons with Emily! I'll eat less ice-cream! I'll take Jake and Henry swimming! I'll do anything!_

They were a few hundred metres up the street when something gave a brief metallic scream and a crash.

_If I get out of here, I am never leaving my fucking tech lair ever again._

"He's through the door," panted Grace, and dodged to the right, through the broken gate of what looked like an abandoned warehouse.

"What – did – he – _do_ – to – it?" Penelope hissed, and then she remembered the crime scene photos she had not managed to avoid seeing earlier.

She glanced behind and caught a wild glimpse of the door sticking out of the side of a car.

_What the hell?!_

"Quick," Reid huffed, yanking the door of the warehouse open. The padlock and chain that had been wrapped around the handles mustn't have been secured at all, because it slid to the ground without even a token resistance.

Her mind screamed, _HE EXPLODED TWO PEOPLE AND A DOG!_ as her friends propelled her inside. _Has he got explosives? Or chemicals? What the hell is this guy doing? Oh FUCK._

The building was pitch dark and filthy, full of looming shadows that she presumed were disused machinery and equipment, in various stages of looting and disrepair. Penelope gulped. They were going to have to move slower in here, or they would take themselves out – which was a relief as far as her lungs were concerned, but not very helpful given that a deranged serial killer with some kind of chemical weapon was close on their heels.

With any luck, he wouldn't realise they were inside the warehouse. But then, she reflected, as Reid fell headlong over what might once have been a shelving unit, luck was in short supply tonight. His gun skittered across the floor.

"_Fuck!"_ he yelped in pain and surprise, and that part of Penelope's brain that was functioning despite the manifold terror, registered that she had never heard him curse before. If anything, it just made her more frightened, but she had the weird urge to laugh, all the same.

Squashing it, she ran forward and pulled him to his feet as Grace retrieved his gun and pressed it into his hands.

"We need to hide," she said urgently.

Reid pointed to a staircase at the back. "There."

"No! People – always – go – upstairs – in movies," Penelope managed. "And we always – yell at them for it – because they get – trapped!"

"She's right," Grace whispered. "Basement's out, too, same reason."

"I can't see a damn thing!" Penelope complained.

"We can't use a light," said Reid, and for some reason he seemed to be saying this to Grace more than to Penelope. "He'll see exactly – where we are." He grimaced and clutched his shin. "That really hurt."

"Can you run?" Grace asked, catching his elbow.

Although it was very dark and her friends' faces were essentially slightly blacker shadows in the gloom, she could tell a lot of rather urgent and painful information was passing between them.

"No," he admitted, at last, sounding angry, but calm. "I'll stay here and cover you."

"No!" Penelope gasped, as Grace spat, "The hell you will!"

"I can't move fast," he hissed. "I can't put much weight on my ankle. And he is _coming_! And he won't stop, until –"

Both agents looked at Penelope and she felt something fundamental shift inside her chest. She was still shaking, and a lot of it was still terror, but she found she had passed through it and come out the other side.

_No one hurts my babies,_ she thought, and moved closer to Reid, intending to pilot him to safety, but Grace got there first, tucking her shoulders under his arm in a way that left him no room to argue – though he still tried.

"I'll help you," Grace informed him, waving him into silence. "Garcia, head for the office – we'll be right behind you."

"_I am not leaving you_," said Penelope, in a voice that was a good deal less frightened and a good deal angrier, even to her. "He came after _me_, and –"

"And he's _not_ getting you," Reid interrupted, with a steeliness to his tone that Penelope didn't often hear.

"I won't let this son of a bitch hurt you instead of me!" she cried, and they both shushed her frantically.

"You're not leaving us behind, Penelope, you're going ahead," Grace whispered briskly. "You're going to get to the office, take cover and call Hotch – because we won't be able to keep him occupied forever. And me and Reid will be _right behind you._"

"Garcia, go," Reid hissed. "Go – get us back up."

"But –"

"_Go!"_ they cried in unison.

She swore, turned and scrambled across the machinery strewn room. They were right: they needed help – even if that help seemed like it would be woefully inadequate, right now. At the very least, SWAT might be able to shoot the vicious son of a bitch. She jogged to a halt inside the grubby office and nearly toppled over a fallen filing cabinet. Strewn papers shifted and slid beneath her feet, and she wobbled violently before jamming the mop against the far wall and steadying herself. She hadn't even realised she still had it. Clutching it close to her chest (and somehow feeling better for that), she ducked beneath a desk, momentarily glad that whoever had kitted out the office had asked for a metal one.

Then she remembered the emergency door at the hotel.

Fingers clumsy with terror, she fumbled with her phone, and almost called her friend Holly instead of Hotch. It wouldn't have been particularly helpful, since Holly was a nail technician in Halifax, Virginia, and was probably asleep, as it was.

He answered halfway through the first ring.

"_Are you alright?"_

"No!" she squeaked. "We got – out of – the hotel!"

God I'm out of breath, she thought, willing herself to be able to speak clearly.

"_Where are you?"_ he asked, and Penelope recognised the 'don't fuck with me, we're in trouble' tone from a hundred desperate phone calls. _"Is Reid with you? Is Pearce?"_

"Yes, they – they're just behind me. Reid hurt his leg – Grace is helping –"

"_Garcia, where are you?"_

"W-w-warehouse," she stuttered. Now she was still, the horror of the situation was really beginning to catch up with her. She shook her head, trying to get a hold of herself. "Half a block from the h-h-hotel."

In the background, she could hear the voices of the rest of her team, tersely calling out the usual operational nonsense to one another.

"_Stay calm, we're coming."_

"_Hang in there, Mama!" _Derek yelled, and Penelope had a sudden, sickening vision of the crime scenes, but with her friends' faces superimposed over the half-stripped flesh.

Panic gripped her heart. "Hotch – no – don't send anyone, he blew a whole door open and I have no idea how, but it flew across the street and hit a car – a-a-and the wall at the hotel cracked wide open – and whatever he's got, if you guys – if you guys get in the way of that –"

"_Garcia, I need you to listen to me,"_ said Hotch, and Penelope forced herself to calm down a notch, aware that whatever he was about to say would be important. _"Keep in cover. Stay close to Pearce. Do whatever she tells you."_

"Reid's not hurt that b-b-badly," she began, confused, but he cut her off.

"_Do you understand? I need a 'yes', Penelope."_

"Yes, sir!" she cried, terrified and confused.

"_Good. We're twenty minutes out. Try to keep out of sight."_

_Oh, God!_

She heard him bark at someone that they needed tactical assistance, and then Emily begin relaying terse instructions – presumably to the local Field Office.

"_Garcia, are the others with you yet?"_

That was Rossi; she supposed they had her on speaker phone.

"I don't know…" She took a gulp of air, steeled herself for the worst and risked a swift glance over the top of the desk.

To her immense relief, Grace and Reid were only a few feet away, slowly navigating the treacherous dark of the warehouse floor. Too slowly.

"They're – yeah – they're here –" She cleared a path on the floor with the mop, as best as she could, to save them slipping.

"He's inside," Reid panted, as he dropped low beside her. "Keep your head down."

Penelope moaned in dread as he clumsily shifted into a more defensive position.

Grace crouched on Penelope's other side. "Try to stay still and quiet," she whispered. "Have you got Hotch?"

"Yes," Penelope breathed, and then realised that her other team members had gone quiet, too – presumably having heard Reid.

"How long?"

"Twenty minutes," Penelope replied, squeezing her eyes shut. "Well, eighteen, now."

Distantly, they heard the sound of someone moving through the warehouse. Penelope's heart leapt back into her mouth. She felt Grace's fingers lace with her own; Reid pressed himself closer to her other side. They were shielding her, she realised, and whimpered. She tried as hard as she could to breathe quietly, convinced that Blaize would be able to hear both that and her pulse, given how loud it was echoing in her skull.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" he called, and Garcia startled badly.

He was still pretty far, based on the sound of his voice, but that wasn't a huge comfort. Grace's other hand landed on her back, steadying her.

'_You're not alone here', _it seemed to say.

She felt her friend's breath on her neck. "Hold fast," she murmured.

"I know you're in here, Penelope – you and your little friends!"

Swallowing hard, she tried to make herself even smaller.

_This is all my fault!_

"I know all about you, Penelope. That was a dirty trick with my servers. I was almost impressed."

It was agony, huddled together in the dark, waiting for one of two equally appalling outcomes: Blaize found them and did what he had done to the other victims; or the others arrived and he did it to them, instead. She kept her cell phone pressed to her ear, the sounds of the rest of the team keeping her from falling entirely apart.

This time, when he called out, he was a good deal closer. "You FBI agents think you're so clever, but you're no match for me. Let me see, it must have been Spencer Reid who shot at me – sorry, _Doctor_ Reid."

Penelope felt Reid shift marginally nearer to her. "You're a very poor shot, by the way, for a genius. Can't have been Grace Pearce, because you've only just been cleared to recertify for your weapons license. You're not even armed."

_He can't know that!_ Penelope realised. _Unless –_

"Tell me, Agent Pearce, what did it feel like to have that shotgun at the back of your head? A thrill like no other, I should imagine."

Penelope opened her eyes to look at Grace, who looked remarkably impassive, in the gloom. She squeezed her hand and Grace's eyes met hers.

"He must have back-hacked me," Penelope murmured urgently into her cell. "He can't know about medical clearance any other way."

"_That must be how he knew where you were,"_ JJ whispered, from somewhere distant.

"_Twelve minutes, Garcia,"_ said Hotch tersely.

"Trust me, when I'm done with you, it'll pale into comparison." Blaize sounded like he was about twenty feet away, now. "And you have Penelope to thank for it!"

Slowly, carefully, Reid shifted so he could see them both. He met Grace's gaze, and something passed between them. Penelope wasn't sure what they were saying to one another, but it seemed to be important. Oddly, and for no reason she could think of, the office betting pool came to mind.

"He's right outside," Reid mouthed.

Penelope closed her eyes again. Whatever happened next, she didn't want to see.

"I'll peel your friends apart like oranges, Penelope, for what you did," Blaize continued, voice silky with rage. "And I'll make you watch."

She gave a sort of silent sob of terror, and then her eyes flew open because Grace had let go of her hand and made to stand up.

"No, don't!" hissed Reid, and grabbed her hand, wide-eyed. He shook his head, but Grace disentangled his fingers. "The others –"

"Exactly. No choice, now. Stay low."

"Grace!"

But with that, she stepped lightly out of the office and into the warehouse beyond, as sure-footed as if she were walking across the bullpen, and for a horrible moment, Penelope thought she might simply faint from shock.

"Ah, there you are, Agent Pearce," Blaize cried, triumphantly. "Somehow, I thought it would be Doctor Reid – I mean, you're not even armed. But then, perhaps your recent brush with death has made you reckless."

Reid moved into a higher crouch, still using the desk and office wall as cover, but levelling his gun at Blaize's head.

"Ah, there you are Doctor," he said, sounding smug. "And I assume little Penelope is with you there, also."

"Stay down," Reid hissed, but Penelope couldn't have moved if she tried.

"_Garcia, what's going on?" _Hotch asked quietly.

"I think Grace's going to try to keep him talking," she whispered. "Reid's covering her, but –"

"I must admit, this deviance from my schedule is rather irritating," said Blaize, and it sounded like he was sidestepping to keep Grace between him and Reid's gun.

It appeared to be working, because her friend gave a hiss of frustration. "Dammit, Grace!"

"But I am really rather enjoying this. Do you know why, Agent Pearce?"

"Because you're an arrogant wanker who thinks everyone is beneath him," said Grace, in the characteristic ringing tone that she had heard her friend use when men in clubs were getting a little handsy.

Unable to help herself, Penelope rose up on her knees and peeked above the table. Grace was standing about ten feet from them – and about the same distance behind her was the short man with a bad goatee and long, black coat she remembered from the CCTV footage Rossi had turned up. He was presently turning puce, looking utterly apoplectic.

"_What the hell is she doing?"_ Emily demanded in an urgent whisper.

"_She's keeping him busy,"_ Hotch snapped. _"So we can liaise with Tactical. How far out are they?"_

Penelope watched in helpless horror as Blaize pointed the tip of his walking cane at Grace.

"You shut your mouth!"

"You think there's no one quite like you," Grace informed him, with no indication she had even heard him speak. "But let me tell you who you are, 'Draven Blaize'. You picked a stupid name to make yourself feel better about your dull, boring life. You dress like an extra from _The Prestige_ because you know otherwise no one will notice you. You shop at _Rosetti's_ for the most dangerous and exciting things you can think of because you're dying to be interesting. You rely on props to get you through, but they stop working because you don't pay attention to the details. You make big plans, but they always fall apart. Everything goes wrong for you, and you tell yourself it's all someone else's fault, but the truth is, _Draven_, you just aren't clever enough or talented enough to make things work properly. You are mediocre. A bore."

"I bet those men don't think I'm dull or boring!" he shouted. "Or their families! And I got your attention! You're here! You'll see! You'll see when I'm done!"

Grace laughed, and it was a curiously unsettling sound – like someone else was laughing with their friend's mouth.

"You think murder makes you _special_?" she scoffed. "Take it from me, there are thousands of disappointing, pathetic little men _just like you,_ who kill for no reason other than to ameliorate their own insignificance."

Was it Garcia's imagination, or could she smell gunpowder? Her ears popped, as though there had been a marked drop in pressure.

"I'm going to be the most powerful warlock in Wichita!" he screamed, livid. "And none of you pitiful FBI fucks are going to stop me! I'll have the world at my feet! I will bind them to me, and not even the Dark Lord will be able to challenge me!"

Something dripped on the back of Penelope's neck and she looked up.

_Rain? But there were clear skies when we left the hotel…_

High above them, the unmistakeable rumble of thunder rolled across the heavens. It made for a peculiarly dramatic backdrop to Blaize's ramblings. For a long moment, Penelope considered the possibility that he was doing it himself, to underline his point. But that would be insane.

"_Eight minutes, Garcia."_

"You don't even kn0w what that word means," said Grace, almost softly.

"The Dark Lord! The Holly King! The Lord of Ice!" Blaize shouted. "You insignificant insect! You are nothing compared to me."

"No," she said calmly. "Not that one."

A fork of lightning lit up the world outside the warehouse, superimposing the negative imprints of the window frames over everything. The phone in Penelope's hand went dead.

"Hotch?" she whispered. "Hotch! No, no, no!"

"What is it?" Reid hissed.

"The phone cut out – it – there's no signal – I don't understand."

"You think you're so much cleverer than me, you little bitch," Blaize snarled. But he was unable to resist adding, "Which word?"

Grace laughed again. It was a cold laugh, and so very unlike her usual one. A shiver of something akin to horror travelled down Penelope's spine. "You're all the same. Petty little infants with a God complex. 'Warlock'."

There was a sudden quiet in the warehouse, as if the building itself was holding its breath. Blaize, it seemed, hadn't noticed.

"It means powerful sorcerer! Mage! It's an epithet – a term of respect, you imbecile! That's what I –"

"No, you vapid, hollow excuse for an illusionist." Grace said, an icy kind of hatred in her voice. She squared her shoulders. "It means 'traitor'."

After, Penelope couldn't have said what happened first: the burst of violent green light that shot out of Blaize's cane like fire, or the crack of pure, white energy that seemed to split it in two and pass straight through it, right at him.

Ravenous, emerald flames rushed towards them, and suddenly Reid was throwing her behind him, trying to shield her with his body. Penelope clutched him to her, trying to get him as far back as possible, away from the impossible fire. The windows and wall of the little office cracked, splintered and collapsed.

Someone was screaming; Penelope realised it was her.

_Well, this is a fucking weird way to die_, she thought, then: _Holy shit, he's a real life wizard!_ Then: _Oh fuck, a real life wizard is going to peel our face off!_

Penelope buried her face in the back of Reid's shirt, convinced that the very next thing she would see would be her parents' worried expressions – but the inevitable scorching heat she had expected didn't come.

She could hear Reid taking ragged breaths – they were pressed so close together she could even feel his heart racing in his chest. They were alive – and, on the basis of what she thought she had just seen – probably hallucinating. One of Reid's hands was still pinning her firmly behind him; in the other, his gun hung limply by his side. There was a strange smell – like gunpowder, but also the scent of rain on a hot night.

Screwing up her courage, she peered around his shoulder. Her mouth fell open.

A couple of feet in front of them, just beyond where the windows of the office had been, there was a curved, concave bowl of pale blue light, shifting slightly, like a sort of bubble of smoke. Beyond it, patches of green fire blazed like pools of liquid flame, dripping sparks of something that looked a lot like electricity onto the ground. Great coils of violet smoke swirled around two figures, locked in what Penelope could only describe as a scene from a Sunday afternoon SyFy special.

One of them hurled a ball of silver light at the other, who knocked it away with a flick of their fingers, driving their opponent back with something unseen. The first wizard – because Penelope really couldn't think of a better word to describe them – swung a long stick in the other's direction, and an arc of bronze light rent the air, slicing through one of the long, warehouse tables like butter.

_The cane,_ Penelope realised. _Which made that one Draven Blaize. But where had the other come from – and where the hell was Grace?_

The nearer figure raised their hands and seemed to snatch the arc of energy out of the air, ripping it apart with an audible snap. The energy dissipated, with a series of cracks and bangs as it struck various pieces of discarded machinery and the warehouse walls. In each place it did, metal twisted or crumpled under percussive shock, glass shattered, masonry cracked – thick black vapour rushed upwards in a great billow, and then vanished.

Reid gasped and Penelope gave a little shriek of alarm as it struck the bubble of smoke, which seemed to ripple for a moment, and then glow all the brighter.

"It must have – it must have absorbed the energy!" Reid exclaimed.

He was shaking, she realised, as her fingers tightened around his bicep in fear, every bit as afraid as she was. There was nothing in their FBI training that could have prepared them for this – and as far as she knew, Grace was on the far side of the bubble, somewhere, while two legit magic users hurled spells at one another.

Then the nearer figure pulled something that looked like lightning out of the air, and the atmosphere around her lit up like a Christmas tree, casting her silhouette against the far wall. It looked like whatever it was, was heavy, because it seemed to take a lot of effort to throw it at Blaize, who grunted and staggered backwards a few paces.

He countered with more green fire – though this time it caught the nearer figure off-guard. They barely had time to raise their hands in defence before it struck them in the middle and propelled them backwards. They stumbled, crashing to the floor in a wave of emerald fire.

"Grace!" shouted Reid, taking a step forward, and Penelope looked wildly around, thinking he must have spotted her elsewhere in the warehouse.

But then the nearer figure picked herself up, amongst flames that didn't seem to be touching her anymore, and Penelope got a good look at her face.

"That's – that's –" she spluttered.

Reid nodded, and then flinched as something loud and glowing crashed into the protective bubble Grace – because the other wizard – the _witch_, in fact – could only be Grace – stretched out her hands towards the lurid flames. They surged greedily towards her, coiling almost lovingly about her arms. Then she lifted one hand, raising her first two forefingers, and slid them through the air from one side to another.

Penelope gasped.

Where there had been one weirdly familiar witch, wreathed in blazing jade, now there were two. One strafed left and the other strafed right; the first condensed the flames around her hands into a brightly glowing orb, while the other drew her hands apart and made the green fire roar up.

Now Blaize had two witches to worry about. He sent spell after spell at them, but they side stepped out of their way each time, the ground behind them a mess of broken and melting machine parts.

Trying to keep them both in sight at once, Blaize tripped, stumbling a few steps. One of the Graces cast the fanned up flames in his direction, while the other hurled the compact green orb at him. Caught in the middle, he hastily threw up his cane, then whirled it around, sending violet spikes of something that might have been ice through the air in every direction. They buried themselves in the walls and shattered against the bubble of smoke that was protecting them. One of them struck one of the Graces in the abdomen, and both Penelope and Reid cried out.

She merely shrugged, however, and faded out of existence. The other Grace – the real one – had been busy wrapping magic around her hands, weaving intricate twists and turns into it with her fingers, until she was ready to cast it towards Blaize, which she did with vicious accuracy. A sort of net of light flew towards him, and this time he only just got his cane up in time, and yelled obscenities at her as she made another complicated sort of movement with her hands.

It seemed to Penelope, in that part of her mind that was able to separate itself from the horror and shock of recent and continuing events, that Blaize was vastly outclassed. Where he was flustered and furious, Grace was focused and calm, working and thinking several steps ahead of him, almost too fast for him to keep up. The spells he was using were bright and flashy, but all a bit like fireworks: pretty to look at, but almost all the same. Grace, on the other hand, seemed to be thinking on her feet, using every kind of trick Penelope had ever imagined – not that she had imagined any of this outside the pages of her favourite comics. She wasn't wasting a thing.

For a moment, she recalled Grace's peculiar profile, and her derisive description of the unsub. Somewhere amongst the terror, hope began to blossom.

The air around Blaize shimmered and rippled and he cried out, ducking and throwing something that looked suspiciously like a fireball at Grace's head. For a fraction of a second, Penelope was convinced it would hit her. She wasn't moving out of the way: instead, she appeared to be staring it down. It seemed to move almost in slow motion through the air, but that could have been the adrenaline talking. Then, just when she and Reid were clutching each other and screaming, her friend wrenched it out of the air an inch before her face, span on the spot and sent it howling back at him. It struck home and he gave a shout of pain.

His returning volley was more substance than form – it was hard to see what he had been intending, but the end result was a lot of force with no real design. Grace raised her hands defensively, and it seemed to strike her with incredible force, her feet slipping backwards on the filthy floor until she was pressed right against the barrier protecting the office.

To Penelope's terror, it flickered once, twice, then winked out – and suddenly Grace was on top of them, grunting with the effort of preventing whatever it was from reaching the three of them.

Without apparent thought, Reid put both hands on her back, and Penelope did the same on his, trying to keep Grace upright and steady; trying to keep her doing whatever she was doing. The force of whatever it was slammed into them and Penelope nearly stumbled. Somehow, she kept her feet. There was a tremendous amount of noise, and a sort of electric feeling in the air, as if a vast quantity of energy was rushing past them on either side. Penelope screwed her eyes shut, feeling the tiny hairs on her bare arms standing up. All three of them were shouting, giving everything they had to defend against the onslaught of sound and light and power. Everything seemed to tingle with static for a moment, and then it just _stopped_.

The force pressing them against the office wall subsided abruptly, and she and Reid stumbled forward. Grace, however, appeared to have being expecting it.

Penelope peeked out from behind a trembling Reid to see Blaize raise his cane once more. This time, however, the red burst of lightning shooting across the warehouse seemed to get stuck in mid-air, part way between them and the unsub. There was a tremendous clap of thunder from outside, as if the storm was right above them.

"What –" he shouted, stunned, and then cried out as the energy whizzed back in the opposite direction and almost smacked him in the face; he raised his cane.

Grace hadn't moved, keeping her hands up in a fighting stance – Blaize, too, seemed frozen. He had his cane up, pointing right at her, but it didn't seem to be doing anything.

"Stop it!" he shouted. "Stop! No! You can't!"

Whatever Grace was doing seemed to be holding Blaize in place. The cane was shaking, as if he was resisting with all his might. Then something gave a sickening crack and Blaize screamed. He fell back, clutching his arm, as the cane flew through the air towards Grace. She caught it deftly in two hands, then shoved it through the air towards him. Blaize was knocked clean off his feet, toppling over a bench.

Penelope punched the air in triumph. There was a moment of genuine, delighted relief – and then the floor started to shake.

Across the room, Blaize staggered to his feet and ran away from them. Grace started after them, but the floor gave a particularly sickening lurch. All around them, the walls started shaking; a series of deafening thuds suggested the upper floors of the building were not doing too well.

Reid, whose leg was still giving him some trouble, immediately over-balanced, and Penelope was reaching to help him up when Grace skidded to a halt beside them, the unsub's cane still in hand. She slammed it point down into the floor of the little office, and everything seemed to crystallise and slow. The unmistakeable cacophony of an entire building collapsing around them continued unabated, but around the three agents, the world seemed entirely still and quiet. Even the plaster dust swirling through the air appeared to be drifting past almost lazily.

And then, with one final, world-shaking crash, it was over. The cane gave a shriek of material stress and split in two, and Grace dropped to her knees. When she raised her head, she seemed otherworldly, somehow – eyes and hair a little wild beneath the streaks of dirt and plaster, as if all that power was still crackling away, just beneath her skin.

"Are you okay?" she asked, moving to help Penelope up from where she had fallen, but she flinched away. She couldn't help it. The mop was still in her hand, and she found herself threatening Grace with it.

Quick as a flash, Reid was upright, putting himself in Grace's path – protecting Penelope. He still had his gun in his hand, and he half raised it, instinctually.

Grace backed up at once, as if she had been slapped. Then the hurt that bruised across her features vanished behind her professional mask and she looked back over the mass of twisted rubble.

"I'll find us a way out," she said shortly, and gave a purposeful wave of her hand.

Some of the rubble organised itself out of her path, and, pausing to collect the remains of Draven Blaize's cane, she walked away.


	24. That Old Black Magic

**It's a strange world out there right now, my dearest hearts. Look after yourselves and the people around you, stay socially distant, keep washing your hands, and be your lovely selves. If anyone is feeling overwhelmed and needs a chat, I live on the book of face, twitter and instaham under my pen name, Lauren K. Nixon. **

**As Garcia's bookend quote said, from Penelope: 'Love all, trust a few, do harm to none' – William Shakespeare.**

**0o0**

**Essential Listening: Learn to Live, by Alice Merton**

By the time they staggered outside, it was raining pretty hard, but it seemed like the majority of the storm had passed. Penelope turned her face towards it, enjoying the cool, shocking sensation on her skin. After the intense weirdness of the events inside the warehouse, it felt reassuringly normal – or as normal as it could be, given she was in her pyjamas, outside, and that was a fairly rare occurrence, by PG standards.

It was also washing some of the plaster dust off, which was a b0nus.

Reid, who was still limping a little, leaned against one of the few sections of wall that had remained upright and didn't seem to be too wobbly, and Penelope picked her way over to him, still nervously clutching her mop.

Grace moved off to one side, holding herself rather stiffly. Trying, Penelope thought, not to look threatening.

She jumped when she heard the first siren, and then again when the first of quite a few patrol cars screeched into view, their headlights cutting through the pre-dawn dark. They parked haphazardly and at speed; it was quite something to see a fleet of law enforcement vehicles (six police cruisers, two Bureau SUVS, two ambulances, an anonymous van probably belonging to the tactical unit and a fire truck) heading towards you at full tilt and trusting them all to stop in time. Which they did, of course, leaving Penelope with the curious feeling that she was very suddenly at the apex of all the emergency services in the area.

She blinked at the flashing lights, feeling that her brain really wasn't keeping up with proceedings, and then five worried BAU agents tumbled out of the SUVs and closed the distance between the cars and the three of them.

"Federal agents! Stand down," shouted Grace, and Penelope realised she was talking to Tactical, who were swarming out of their van like a small army of angry hornets. She held up her badge. "Suspect made off on foot. Don't know which way. I think he was hurt when the building came down."

"Alright, conduct a sweep of the area," the Tactical leader instructed, and the swarm moved off.

Somewhere nearby, a fireman was loudly asking about whether the remains of the warehouse was safe to enter, and someone else – possibly Detective Singh – was yelling something about keeping people back and setting up a cordon, but honestly, Penelope couldn't care because the rest of the team reached them and enveloped her in a many-armed hug.

She could hear them all talking at once, to both her and Reid, but she couldn't process more than the presence of the sound, until Reid pushed himself between her and Emily and said, "Okay, give her some room, you guys. A building just fell on us."

Gratefully, Penelope grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze, as the others backed up, mindful of his usual intolerance for personal contact, and he pressed her fingers in acknowledgement.

"Here," said JJ, gently taking the mop out of her hand.

"Oh no!" Penelope gasped. "I think I stole a mop!"

"It's okay," said Emily. "I don't think they'll press charges." Penelope gaped at her, wide-eyed for a moment, and she gave a sort of half-laugh. "I'm kidding!"

"Let's get you to an ambulance, okay, Babygirl?" said Morgan, moderating his tone to be gentler and keeping a hand on her shoulder, but staying arm's length away.

"I'm okay," she said, though her voice came out rather small. "I'm not hurt. Reid should get his leg looked at, and I think Grace f-fell," she added, shooting the latter a worried glance.

She appeared to be allowing a paramedic to clean a small cut on her forehead, quite purposefully not looking in their direction.

Now that everything had calmed down a little, and the rest of the team were bustling around, Hotch somewhere on the periphery, barking orders and looking tersely at anyone who stepped out of line, Penelope was struggling to believe anything that had just happened. It was like something out of a nightmare.

"We've got Reid," said Rossi, and he and Emily moved to help him.

"I can walk, I'm okay," he said, a touch snappily.

"Alright, Junior G," said Emily, though she kept her tone teasing. "We were worried about you."

"I know, I'm sorry," he said, subsiding. "That was just –" He shared a glance with Penelope. "A lot."

"Mm-hmm," she agreed, letting Morgan put an arm around her shoulders and escort her towards the ambulance.

"Which is why they need to check you out, Mama," he said gently. "You might be in shock, and I need my Goddess of wisdom and miracles in tip top condition, okay? For me?"

"For you," she agreed.

"Good girl."

One paramedic wrapped her in a foil blanket, while the other checked out Reid's leg.

"It's mostly bruised pride," the doctor said, with a grimace, and the paramedic nodded.

"You'll have some real bruises, too, and it's going to be uncomfortable to walk on for a little while. I can give you some codeine, if –"

"No, I'm good, thanks," he said. "I – uh – don't like taking opioids."

He bit his lip, avoiding their gaze, but the paramedic didn't appear to notice. Penelope looked away.

Minutes passed in a strangely muted rush. People came and went outside the ambulance. The paramedics left to confer and make notes for their reports – and presumably to decide whether to keep their patients.

Morgan crooked his finger under Penelope's chin and gently raised it until she was looking at him. She hadn't even realising she was zoning out, but she supposed that was what shock did to a brain.

"Hey," he said softly. "You okay in there?"

"Um, I think so?" she said, but truthfully, she wasn't sure.

Being specifically targeted and hunted by a skin-flaying maniac was bad enough without also discovering that both he and _one of your best friends_ wouldn't have been out of place in the Triwizard Tournament. It was, as Reid had so eloquently said, a _lot_.

"I gotta go check in with Hotch and the others," said Derek. "Are you gonna be okay in here?"

Penelope nodded, even though she wanted him to stay and give her another hug, and maybe never go away.

"Alright. Pretty boy?"

Reid glanced up from the max-strength ibuprofen packet the paramedic had thrust in his hand. "Yeah, man. I'll look out for her."

Derek patted him on the shoulder. "I'm glad you guys were there."

Reid nodded slowly, watching their friend detour towards the other ambulance to check on Grace. As soon as he was out of their eyeline, he climbed clumsily up and sat beside Penelope.

"Garcia, the – the others – don't tell them about –"

"About how we just watched our friend throw a bunch of green fire, and split herself in two, and break a man's arm with her mind, and make some kind of shield thing out of mist, and –"

"Yes," he said, urgently. "And the rest."

"There's _more?_" Penelope exclaimed. She looked at his pained expression and narrowed her eyes. "Oh my God! You knew. This whole time – you knew she was a – a…"

Her brain couldn't quite make the word 'witch' come out. It was too weird, even in an ambulance, beside a flattened building in the middle of the night.

Reid ducked his head. "I – I knew she was a witch," he admitted, and Penelope couldn't do much more than gape at him as he glanced outside. "I didn't know she could do _that_."

"I – what if she's a risk to the others?" she asked, though the thought sounded ridiculous to her even before it finished coming out of her mouth.

"She's still Grace," Reid insisted. "She didn't just learn magic overnight. She's always been able to do this – and we've always trusted her. I still trust her." He took her hand, very gently. "Do you?"

He looked so earnest. Penelope could understand his need to think well of the woman he was quite clearly (to Penelope, at least) in love with, but then, he was right: Grace was their friend, and had been for years. But she had also been hiding a _lot_.

She thought of the way power had seemed to crackle under the woman's skin, and the cold way she had reached out with her mind until a man's arm snapped.

Penelope shivered.

But there had also been the bubble thing that seemed to behave like a shield, and the way she had physically stood in the way at whatever Blaize had tried to throw at them – and the effort she had put into keeping them safe as the building collapsed.

"Please, Penelope," he pleaded, and she cracked.

"Ugh, fine," she said. "I promise not to tell."

Relief crashed over Reid's face like a wave. "Thank you. I promise she'll tell you all about it, when we're back home. Or, I'll ask if I can, if you prefer," he added, hurriedly, as Penelope swallowed hard.

"Okay," she said slowly. "And she was protecting us, right?"

"Right."

"And she didn't start protecting us before, because?"

Reid paused and looked at her. "She was protecting us the whole time, Garcia – and the people in the hotel. That's why those fire doors wouldn't open, so he didn't have any other targets – and why every door we needed to get through, did."

0o0

"… and then he brought the whole warehouse down on top of us," Pearce reported, in the London Metropolitan Police bland statement tone that was peculiar to her 'I don't want to be here but I have to be' vernacular. "He made off; I protected Reid and Garcia."

They both glanced towards the other ambulance, where their friends were being treated for shock and a nasty bruise to the shinbone. Reid looked briefly in their direction, and then looked away, clearly uneasy.

"And they saw all of it?" he asked. "Both of them?"

"Hard for them not to, sir," she said, in a manner so completely detached that Aaron knew that this was killing her. "Sorry, making the report not be weird is going to take some mental gymnastics."

Her tone, her body language, the way she was deliberately meeting his gaze – it all told him one thing: she had shut down; it was her best defence against whatever fallout there would be from Garcia witnessing the kind of weirdness that he had seen before Christmas in Oregon. Aaron wondered whether he could persuade their technician not to bring it up with the rest of the team. At the very least, it would be unhelpful for team morale, and at worst he'd have to consider Pearce's future at the BAU.

And he didn't want to do that.

"I broke his arm, and he can't have got through the building without taking some hits, so he may be seeking medical attention," she continued. I pretty much drained all his energy – and I broke this. Admittedly, not on purpose, but it takes a lot to stop that much falling concrete – and the staff was not designed for my use."

She handed him the cane, which someone had given her a large evidence bag for. It didn't look much different to a normal walking stick up close, though closer examination revealed intricate silver chasing across the lacquered surface of the wood, a central metal core and an unpleasant looking silver wolf's skull handle. It was also split almost entirely in two, all along its length.

"There might be a usable print, but honestly, I had to have my hands all over it," she said, without sounding particularly apologetic.

Aaron nodded.

"He should be a lot less dangerous, now, but we don't know if he has access to other resources. I'd recommend maintaining the do-not-approach order and letting me have the first crack at him."

"Understood," said Aaron; he frowned. "Do you think you can take him out safely?" he asked, eyeing the rubble behind her.

"Yes," she said, without emotion. "He's drained and he was a bit of a one-trick wizard, if I'm honest." She shook her head. "No imagination."

"Don't underestimate him," he warned her, an echo of their earlier conversation.

_That_ got a response.

"I'm not," she said tartly, raising an eyebrow and meeting his gaze with a lot more focus and a lot less blandness. Suddenly he remembered her description of the arrogant young officer she had once been. Aaron could see her now, clear as day. "I vastly outclass him, and he found that out just now. He won't risk engaging with me if he can help it. He's more likely to go for other law enforcement targets. I can keep him occupied – and I think I can do that without others seeing – but the most likely outcome here is suicide-by-cop."

Aaron regarded her silently for a moment, and she appeared to realise how she might have sounded. The air of operational blandness settled around her features once more.

"I need your head right for this," he said, lowering his voice. "Can I count on you?"

"Yes."

He raised his eyebrows.

"_Yes_," she repeated, sounding annoyed – but then, that wasn't unexpected.

Aaron relented. They both knew the stakes, and he had to trust that she would keep that in mind, no matter what Garcia said to her or to the others.

"Alright. The paramedic released you, so – hey." She had already started to move away, so he stopped her, one hand on her shoulder. "I want you to tell me, right now, if I should send you back to the hotel to sleep."

"No. I couldn't sleep right now if I tried," she told him.

"You said you drained Blaize's magic," he pointed out. "Won't the… 'altercation' have an impact on you?"

"Yes, but as I said, he was vastly outclassed." She let out a sharp sigh on his expression. "It'll hit me, but not for a while – and I promise to tell you when it does, if we're still on the case by then."

"You'd better," he half-joked, but she didn't crack a smile. "Alright, well, I'm glad you're okay – and I'm glad you were here."

Grace shook her head, glancing at the ambulance their friends were in; again, Reid looked briefly in their direction, panicked when he saw her looking at him, and turned away. She chewed the inside of her mouth.

"I wish I hadn't had to be."

Aware that there wasn't much that he could say to help, he left her to her own devices. The paramedics were conferring outside the ambulance, so he trusted they would be busy enough for him to assess how bad the team dynamics were about to be, and what he might have to persuade his junior agents to leave out of their reports.

However, the first thing Garcia said when he reached them was, "I think I stole a mop!" and from there, everything he had planned to say was entirely derailed.

"You – sorry?" he peered at her, confused.

"From the hotel," said Reid, in his 'I'm totally okay, honest, boss' voice. "She had it when she realised Blaize was in her room."

"I just picked it up! And I didn't put it back! And I think JJ took it away. Is that a felony? It's got to be a felony. I'm going to go to jail over a cleaning implement. I'm –"

"Garcia –" he began, but then recognised the opening strains of a verbal panic attack when he heard one.

Her voice was rising with each syllable.

Aaron climbed into the ambulance and gave her a hug.

Garcia burst into tears. "I – huh – um… Hi, sir."

He drew back a little. "The mop isn't a problem," he said gently. "Okay?"

"Okay," she sniffled. "Sorry – uh – it all sort of hit me at once."

"It's fine," he said.

Reid rubbed her back. "So, how are you liking the field?" he asked, in a calculated undertone.

Garcia giggled. "I hate it."

"You're doing brilliantly," Reid assured her.

Aaron sat across from Garcia and she brushed away her tears with a plaster-stained sleeve.

"Can you talk about what happened?" he asked. She immediately froze, so he added, "We don't have to do this now."

"No, it's okay," she said, with a glance at Reid, who had suddenly gone very still. "Um, I had a nightmare, and I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went to get snacks."

She told him, haltingly, of her discovery of the intruder, contacting the team, Reid and Pearce collecting her from the broom cupboard and their flight from the hotel. When she got to the part where the phone had cut out, she sent Reid a frightened sort of look and gulped.

"G-G-Grace tried to keep him talking, and it worked for a while," she said, lying so transparently that it was almost reassuring. "And I didn't see what, but – but – I think he threw something at us, and then everything sort of exploded."

He waited for a moment, to see if anything else would be forthcoming, then turned to Reid, who swallowed.

"Sir?"

"Anything you want to add?"

"Nothing we can put in a report," he said carefully, then patted Garcia's hand. "Hotch knows. The others don't."

"And I would prefer it to remain that way, for the moment," Aaron added, gently.

Their technical analyst's mouth formed a perfect 'o'.

"She recognised that whoever was in Garcia's room had magic, so we decided to leave the hotel to protect the other guests – given the profile," Reid told him, sounding very tired indeed. "Grace stopped anyone else getting into the fire escape. He did something to the fire door when it close behind us that propelled it through the air and into a car. I didn't see what it was.

"When we got to the warehouse, I think she unlocked the padlock on the door, because the chain pretty much fell off in my hands." He frowned. "I think the change in pressure was her, too – did your ears pop?" he asked Garcia, who nodded, still deeply shocked. "I'm pretty sure the weather is a – a side effect," he said, nodding upwards at the rain-laden clouds. "It wasn't raining before we got to the warehouse."

"No, the skies were totally clear!" Garcia exclaimed. "I thought that was weird! I thought the unsub was doing it to show off – and then I thought I was insane. Turns out, not so much…"

"I – uh – I read about it in Lemuel Grey," said Reid.

Aaron nodded. "It's on my list," he said, motioning for him to continue.

"Well, according to Grey, when someone who is – uh – particularly powerful gathers, um… magic, ready to cast, the weather can go a little nuts. Especially for practitioners who are instinctive…" He trailed off. "Um, which Grace is."

"What does tha-" Garcia began, but Aaron shook his head and she fell silent. There would be time for that later.

"Do you want me to describe the fight?" Reid asked, biting his lip.

"Yes."

It took some time, but between them, they gave an account of the events in the warehouse that led to its collapse. Aaron took some comfort in the fact that it tallied exactly with Pearce's account, except where they had guessed at a motivation and she had provided terminology.

"Alright," he said, when they were finished. "I'm going to check whether the paramedics are happy to release you, and then I want –"

"I am _not_ staying at the hotel," Garcia insisted flatly.

Aaron smiled. "I wasn't going to suggest it. Morgan and JJ will stay with you while you get cleaned up, then you can leave your things in JJ's room and come back to the station. You can sleep in the break room. You, too, Reid. I don't really want anyone out on their own."

"Agreed," he said emphatically. "Hotch," he added, as Aaron made to leave. "If – if Grace hadn't been there, we would both be dead."

Hotch grasped his shoulder, feeling very old indeed. "I know."

0o0

Grace left her room more slowly than she had intended to.

She hadn't actually lied to Hotch: the fight hadn't been something she couldn't handle, and she'd had worse in the training rooms with her old team, but it had been a long time since she had fought anyone with magic, and she was out of practice. Her mind and body were currently in that state it got to after you had just been swimming for the first time in a while: slightly heavier than usual and weirdly cool in odd places.

She didn't feel like dealing with anyone just now – particularly as she was ninety percent convinced the life she had built for herself in America was about to come crashing down around her, so when Spencer's door opened she had to fight the urge to turn and run.

The image of him standing protectively in front of Garcia, a wildly fearful look on his face and his gun half-raised in her direction surfaced in her mind. She felt faintly nauseous.

For a moment, they surveyed one another silently, then he handed over her belt and phone, which she had abandoned in his room when the morning had felt sharp and dangerous.

Wordlessly, she took them, putting the belt on as he locked his door. To her surprise, he waited for her and they set off together, though neither one said a word.

0o0

Dave stirred a horrible cup of coffee, wondering for the nine millionth time why he had ever come out of retirement.

_Because you missed it_, he reminded himself._ And there is still work like this to do._

Hearing Penelope Garcia sound so frightened and vulnerable had been the mental equivalent of a bucket of icy water to the brain, galvanising every member of the team into something resembling full alertness; even now, two hours after they had all reassured themselves that she, Reid and Pearce were alright, everyone was a little over-wired.

Dave watched the latter two agents out of the corner of his eye. They were working through a stack of reports from the tip line each, at opposite ends of the room. They weren't _not_ talking, not in the way they had been when everyone had wanted to stab them repeatedly with a pencil – or lock them in a supply closet and let them work all the sexual tension out so the team could get on with their lives – but they weren't exactly giving off the same air of cosiness they had been, of late.

He, Prentiss, JJ, Morgan and Hotch had feared the absolute worst when Garcia's phone had cut out. The rumble of the building collapsing – which Dave had initially thought was an earthquake – had reached them in the SUVs, and that had badly unsettled everyone, too. He wasn't sure his heart could have taken it, if –

He stopped that train of thought before it could develop too far.

But they _had_ been alright, if a little bruised and damp, and very unhappy about the whole thing. And that was what you had to cling to, in the end: the people you cared about being alright _this time_. There wasn't anything else you could do.

"Derek, will you listen to me? I. Am. Not. Sleeping. Until. We. Get. Home."

Dave turned to see Penelope Garcia, looking much more herself in a flippy fifties dress covered in green and orange spiders, creating her own personal whirlwind as she strode through the outer part of the office. Morgan and JJ were trailing rather helplessly behind her, trying to get her to go to the break room.

Well, Morgan was. JJ looked like she was fighting laughter.

"Hot stuff, you're not invincible –"

"Let it go, Morgan," JJ advised. "You're going to lose this one."

"But –"

"No, Derek! This guy messed with me and he tried to mess with my babies, and I am done. I am so done. I am going to scrape away the layers of his digital obfuscation until he's naked and crying, and then I'm going to send all of you after him, and then we can go home."

"They jet's okay for sleeping in, too," Reid said, without looking up. "Just make sure you grab the bench seat before Morgan hogs it."

"Before _I_ hog it, Pretty Boy?"

Dave smiled into his cup as Morgan applied himself to winding Reid up, allowing Garcia to reach her temporary fortress of digital shenanigans and settle in without him hovering around her. Which was, presumably, exactly what the kid had intended, given that he was more likely to be the first to curl up – and the bench seat was really the only place he fit.

He waited until Morgan detached, gave Garcia up for a bad job and went to find Detective Singh, before looking up from his stack of files to give the technical analyst a small smile. Penelope blew him a kiss.

"Anything?" JJ asked.

"Not really, not yet," said Reid. He yawned. "Sorry. Um, just the usual things – uh, 'my neighbour's nephew wears a lot of black clothes and make-up, it's suspicious'; 'the guy at number eleven looked at me funny'. That sort of thing."

"The last victim's apartment didn't have CCTV," Dave put in. "And none of the residents appear to have seen our guy."

"Well, they wouldn't," Pearce grumbled.

"Why's that?" Prentiss asked.

"He's too smart to let anyone, that's why," Pearce snapped.

"That's a little surly, even for you," Dave observed.

The look she shot him was so far from friendly it was almost startling. "Maybe I don't like my judgement being questioned."

Prentiss' mouth fell open. "Wha– I wasn't questioning your judgement," she said, in a placating tone. "I just thought since he messed up so many aspects of the last kill, maybe he got careless when he approached the victim's apartment."

Before Pearce could open her mouth and put her foot in it, Dave intervened. "Maybe you could do with some fresh air? Take a few."

She glared at him, but that part of her that still behaved according to the strict hierarchy of the London Metropolitan Police Force made her get up and head sulkily outside. They watched her go, pensively.

"Well, I guess _she_ didn't get much sleep," JJ remarked, flicking her eyebrows up.

Garcia made a high-pitched non-committal sound in the back of her throat that suggested that she was far from over her recent brush with terror; Emily shook her head and got back to the files; Reid's gaze followed Pearce to the door.

Dave half expected the kid to go after her, but he didn't, which was a little weird. Perhaps he, like Dave, had simply realised that what she needed right now was a little space.

Seconds of quiet stretched into minutes. Hotch appeared from his interview with the most recent victim's sister with nothing new to add. Detective Singh appeared with a large box of takeout breakfast food, which cheered everyone up immensely. Everybody looked up as surreptitiously possible when Pearce reappeared, but she didn't appear to notice. She put a cup of takeout coffee next to Emily, with 'SORRY I'M A DICK' written on it in marker pen, which made the other agent snort so loudly she had to pretend to have a coughing fit.

Pearce retreated behind her stack of reports without looking at anyone human, which wasn't a particularly encouraging sign. Dave exchanged a glance with Aaron, who inclined his head just enough to let him know he was aware that she was behaving like a scornful teenager and would either intervene or wait for it blow over, depending on her next move.

Dave watched out of the corner of his eye as Reid used the tip of his pencil to push a carton of eggs and bacon in her direction; either she didn't notice, or she ignored it.

"Okay," said Morgan, coming back in with the kind of spring in his step that made everybody perk their ears up. "The manager at the hotel emailed me their security footage." He put his laptop on the table.

"Wh- but I usually –" Garcia sputtered.

"I know, Mama, but you were on a mission and I didn't want to take you away from it," said Derek, gently. "And starin' at CCTV footage doesn't take your kind of exquisitely honed skillset."

"Well, okay," she said, preening a little. "I forgive you. This time."

"What did you find?" Hotch asked, though Dave spotted the very slight upwards quirk of his mouth.

_He thinks he's so hard to read,_ he thought, chuckling inwardly.

"I checked all the entrances and exits, and there's nothin' leadin' up to the time you sent your text," he said.

Garcia visibly shuddered, and JJ put an arm around her shoulder.

"But," Morgan continued, "I got this from the camera in the elevator. Here's me leavin' and you guys arrivin' at seven…"

The team watched as a steady stream of people rode the lift at a speed that rendered their movements ridiculous.

"And here, at two thirty-eight…" He returned the video to normal speed.

On the video, the doors of the elevator slid open, then closed. No one got on – at least, no one appeared to. The car was entirely empty; nothing moved at all on the floor, or through the air. The doors opened again and then closed, as if someone had exited, but no one had.

"Morgan –" Prentiss began, but he waved her into silence.

"I know, I know. Look again. Watch the mirror."

He drew the video back to when the doors first opened. Nobody stepped inside, but the bottom left of the mirror darkened.

"What is that?" Detective Singh asked, as everyone bunched closer to peer at the image.

"Keep watching," Morgan advised.

The dark spot intensified, then grew, and a few frames later they were looking at the reflection of a man in dark clothes, carrying the cane Pearce had picked up at the warehouse. He was scowling at the mirror, his face as clear as day.

"How the hell is he doing that?" Prentiss asked.

"Could he have hacked the hotel's cameras?" Detective Singh asked.

"No – not externally," said Aaron. "That's what Closed Circuit means."

"He'd have to get into the security office," said Garcia shakily.

"And the security guards swore up and down they hadn't been disturbed," Morgan added.

"They could have been lying," Dave pointed out.

"I'll have my guys re-interview them," said Singh, making a note on his phone.

JJ turned to their technical analyst. "Can you take a still of that and blow it up, Garcia?"

"Uh-huh," she confirmed, in a small voice, and scurried back to her computer. "As long as Morgan – yep, got it."

"We can get his picture out," JJ exclaimed. "I'll set up a press conference."

"Wait," Pearce said, squinting at the screen. "What's that? Garcia – can you enlarge this bit here – where his pocket is?"

"Um…" Garcia frowned at the screen. "This?" she asked, turning her screen around.

There was a square of something yellow sticking out of the black, and on it, a blur of blue.

"Can you enhance it?" Aaron asked.

"Yeah, you know how in movies when they ask an analyst to enhance something and it comes out perfectly clear? That's not really a thing," Garcia complained, but she had already turned the laptop back around and was typing hard. "I can enlarge it, and change the sharpness up a little, but you're not going to get much more than… this."

Everybody craned to see: the blur of blue had resolved somewhat, into a sort of composite shape, made up of a rectangle and an oval. It looked like there was something white in the middle – text, maybe.

Detective Singh shot out of his chair, upending a carton of pancakes. "I know what that is!" he half-shouted, and then scrambled around the table to Morgan's computer.

The agent got out of his way as the detective typed hurriedly. "Here. Bole's Hardware and Repair. It's a computer repair shop on South Seneca! My sister works at the day care across the road – oh _no_…"

"Garcia," Dave began, but she was already looking it up.

"Owned by a Dale Bole –"

"Same initials as Draven Blaize," JJ pointed out.

"Well, we knew that name would be bogus," reasoned Reid.

"It's been trading since '02," Garcia continued, her voice going up a notch with every word. "It's been investigated by the IRS three times, and it went into administration two months ago."

"That's a stressor," Prentiss put in.

"It stopped trading three weeks ago," Garcia continued. "And there's – there's a picture of the owner." She stood up really fast and her chair fell over. "It's him! Oh my God! That's him!"

"Home address?" Hotch asked, but Garcia didn't appear to hear him.

She was staring at the screen, white fingers pressed hard to her face.

"Garcia, does he have a home address listed?" Pearce asked, then reached out and gently touched her arm.

Garcia shot about a foot in the air and yelped.

"Home address," Pearce repeated, as if nothing had happened.

"Oh, yeah, right," she said, her face the colour of milk. "Uh – uh – 216 German Street. Looks like he lives alone – um, I can look in his bank records, just give me a –"

She sent a look of sheer terror at Pearce, who simply righted her chair for her.

"Tell us over the radio," Aaron ordered. "We'll gear up – Garcia?" He waited until she was staring at him. "Check his phone and internet activity. We need to know where he is. I want two teams, ready to go in five. JJ, stay here with Penelope. Pearce…" He looked at her for a full twenty seconds before adding, "You're with me."


	25. Unbound

**Essential Listening: I Am Here, by P!nk**

**0o0**

No one questioned the fact that she was along, even though she didn't have a firearm. She had that sort of expression.

Hotch took Spencer aside while they were pulling on their vests, ostensibly to ask if he was good to go, given the sizeable bruise and slight limp he had developed.

"If Garcia can tell us which location he's at, I want you there," he said. "I know what I'm asking, but I need another agent who knows what Pearce will be trying to do – and the risk this unsub actually poses."

Spencer swallowed. A front row seat for the first altercation between Grace and Bole had been bad enough, he had no strong desire to be present for round two. He buried the reluctance.

"It's just the same as any unsub," he reasoned, aloud. "None of us want to go to a scene where we know a heavily armed psychopath is setting up his endgame, but we all do it."

"Thank you," said Hotch, putting a fatherly hand on his shoulder. For some reason, the action strongly reminded Spencer of Gideon; so much so that he was momentarily disoriented.

He wondered what he would have made of all of this.

"Besides," he joked, "you know I do my best work in a state of mortal terror."

Still, he felt a little shakier than usual when he climbed into the back of the SUV.

"Garcia, what do you have for us?" Hotch asked, as they clipped their ear pieces in place.

There was a momentary silence. Spencer worried his lip, checked his gun for the third time, firmly told himself to _calm down_, and secured one of the straps on his body armour. Kevlar was all well and good against a knife or a gun, but it seemed a little pointless wen there was a man who could knock a whole building to the ground with a wave of his hand.

Though he was sure it was more complicated than that. There was a lot in the books he had read on magic about energy conservation, amplification and so on. Presently, he couldn't resolve the theory with what he had seen, but he suspected that was partly because he'd been so afraid he hadn't been paying the kind of attention he might otherwise have been.

His gaze came to rest on the vulnerable part of Grace's neck, just visible in the gap between the seat in front and its head rest. One rebellious, honey-streaked curl caught the light. Spencer found he couldn't take his eyes off it.

"Garcia?" Hotch asked.

"_I'VE GOT HIM!"_ she shrieked, over the radios, and all three agents winced.

"_Penelope, our eardrums!"_ Prentiss complained, from the other SUV.

"_I'm sorry – but I've got the sick son of a bitch! I backtracked the VPNs based on his location and I have his IP address!"_

"_We already know where he is,"_ Rossi pointed out.

"_I know! But I can tell you he is online right now, using his home IP address."_

"Garcia, you are a literal goddess," said Grace, but Garcia didn't respond.

Spencer's brow furrowed.

"We're nearly there," said Hotch. "We'll need everyone. Garcia, reroute Tactical."

"_Yes, sir!"_

"_On our way,"_ Morgan said, and the sound of three people being thrown through a U-turn came over the radio loud and clear.

Hotch turned it off and sped up. "Pearce?"

"Treat it like he's potentially got an armoury in there," she said. "With any luck, I won't give him the opportunity to use it, but..."

Spencer felt a prickle of something in the back of his mind; it made him think of gunpowder and summer storms, the taste of cinnamon and sugar, and the smell of bergamot and roses. For no reason he could think of, he reached out and touched the back of Grace's seat.

"Understood."

They pulled up a block away from Bole's address, and slipped out of the SUV together.

"Garcia, is there a back way in?" asked Hotch, switching the radio back on.

"_It doesn't look like it, sorry. Please, please, please be careful."_

"_We're three minutes away,_"Rossi advised.

Hotch met first Spencer's, then Grace's eyes. They nodded, then Grace said, loudly, "Did you hear that?"

"That was a scream," Spencer lied, feeling strangely calm, now they were on the ground and doing something – even something that went so completely against his training. He made sure he sounded appropriately worried as they moved through the street, which was empty – for now. "Guys, I think we should go in."

"_Hotch – you've gotta wait!"_ Prentiss exclaimed.

"We're going," he said, and motioned for radio silence, knowing the rest of the team would comply. "Reid, you're with me. Pearce, take the back."

She nodded and vanished around the side of the house. Hotch beckoned him towards the front door, and the two men made sufficient noise to let Bole know they were coming and hopefully get him to head towards the back of the house.

_Assuming he hasn't booby trapped the door,_ Spencer thought.

But perhaps he hadn't had time, because when Hotch kicked it open and they moved inside, all they found was an empty living room. Using a disposable glove from his pocket, Spencer turned the TV on and the volume up. Then he tapped his boss's shoulder and mouthed, "Do not touch _anything_."

Hotch nodded and they split up. Spencer moved into the kitchen. There was no sign of the unsub, but magical paraphernalia was strewn all over the table, amongst take-out cartons and various bottles of alcohol. He gave it a wide berth, and cleared the room. There was a basement door, but there was also a bicycle leaning against it, so it seemed unlikely it had been open in the last few minutes.

Hotch came out of the bathroom and they were moving together towards the next two doors when Spencer's ears popped. Hotch paused and grimaced, suggesting that his had done the same, then they heard a single gunshot.

Spencer's heart dropped out of his stomach.

Hotch took point, while he dropped back.

"Grace?" he asked, into the radio.

"_I'm okay,"_ she replied, sounding a little out of breath. _"He's down."_

Briefly, Spencer shut his eyes, lightheaded with relief.

"No sign of anyone inside," said Hotch. "I think the scream we heard must have come from the TV."

He shared a look with Spencer and they cleared the last few rooms, just in case, then joined Grace outside.

She had holstered her weapon and was leaning against the fence with an air of someone who would very much like a lie-down now, please. There was a wide circle of blackened grass between her and the unsub, littered with broken glass. He had a bullet between his eyes, one arm in a sling and a long, cruel looking knife in the other hand.

"No pulse," she said, without opening her eyes. "I checked. Don't step in the circle. I don't know what it is, but it made a heck of a flash."

Spencer skirted the edge of it. "He rushed you?" he asked carefully.

"Yeah. He had a knife. I had to shoot."

"Yes," said Hotch, then disappeared to the front of the house to meet the members of law enforcement pulling up.

For a moment, Spencer stood beside her, watching the slightly pained expression on her face. "You okay?" he asked, when she didn't move.

Grace startled at that, and opened her eyes. The guarded look was still there, and she eyed him warily. She shrugged.

"The flash hurt your eyes?" he prompted, and she nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgment that it was probably a bit more than a flash.

"It did a bit."

"We should check there's no weapons inside," he suggested, privately adding, _before forensics get here and hurt themselves._

She seemed to agree, because she pushed off the fence. "Hmm…"

Spencer followed her inside, taking care not to touch anything. He turned his radio off and motioned for her to do the same. "The – uh – list from the goblin market said something about crystal trinket boxes," he reminded her.

"That's probably what he used for containment. Did you spot an altar or somewhere –"

"In there," he interrupted, guessing the direction of her thoughts and pointing out the door to what he presumed would be a spare bedroom in any other house.

Grace gave a low whistle. "Jackpot. Looks like an Alchemy Gothic catalogue exploded in here."

"There's more stuff on the kitchen table," he said. "You may have to make that safe, first."

"Right."

She passed him, and he caught that scent of gunpowder again.

"Shall I start in here, or –"

"Be careful. He's the kind of ass hat who would booby trap his study," she warned, which wasn't a no, so Spencer pulled on his gloves and started rifling through the leather-bound volumes on the shelf.

In the background, he heard Morgan and Prentiss bustle in, check on Grace and then fan out into the house. Morgan stuck his head around the door and nodded at him, presumably to ensure that he was in one piece, and then said, "They're all good, Babygirl. Now, will you shut your screens down and go sleep in the breakroom, please?"

Spencer smiled slightly

"Yes, even Pretty Boy – he's right here. Hey man, tell this sweet lady you're okay, would you?" He thrust the phone at Spencer, who held up his gloved hands, so Morgan put the phone to his ear.

"I'm alright, Garcia, and Bole is dead."

"_Oh, thank God,"_ she moaned, with a relief palpable even through the phone. _"Is – is – what – is –"_ Garcia stammered, and he guessed what she was trying to ask.

"Yeah, Grace is fine, too. We're going through his stuff, now, and we'll be a while. Morgan's right, go get some sleep."

"Hear that, Mama?" Morgan asked, taking the phone back. He rolled his eyes at Spencer, and carried on out of earshot.

Spencer's eyes met the empty sockets of the skull of a large bird, artistically placed on the shelf in front of him and quirked his eyebrows at it, as if it would understand. It stared impassively back.

Rossi came next, giving him the once over before continuing out through the back door. Spencer let the sounds of his team and local law enforcement Getting Stuff Done wash over him. This was how he felt safest, he realised. His mind on a problem, and people he trusted around him.

Not that he could let his guard down, even if he was essentially acting as a place holder until Grace finished with whatever she was doing in the kitchen. He moved to the desk. This, he felt, was something to be wary about. He started with the items on the top: a crystal ball on a ridiculously ornate stand; a letter opener that was probably just a very sharp dagger; another skull – feline this time (and under further examination, made of resin); a large, amber coloured geode (plastic); several beautiful looking books, stacked attractively in a way that suggested they had never been touched; a set of black and gold pens; a ridiculous inkwell with a red quill in it.

_So, this is exactly the kind of person who would like the drama of secret panels and hidden drawers…_

He dropped to his haunches and examined the bottom of the desk with his torch; sure enough, towards the back of the left hand drawer unit was a glint of metal: a catch.

He heard footsteps approaching and managed not to hit his head as he straightened up. Grace raised an eyebrow and he beckoned her over, and pointed the catch out.

"Alright," she said. "You should probably clear out."

He stood his ground. "Yeah, not gonna happen."

She raised an eyebrow. "Stand back, at least."

Spencer moved a couple of feet back and raised his chin defiantly.

Grace made a tutting noise, but flicked her hand and opened the catch with her magic. There was a click, a drawer that had previously looked like it was an un-openable part of the structure of the desk sprang open, and a cloud of something inky and black puffed up into the air. Grace cleared it with a wave of her hand.

"Is that it?" Spencer asked, after a moment of rather tense silence.

"I think so," said Grace. "Nasty little thing, for anyone not expecting it – like everything else he's set up."

Still, they approached the drawer with caution. There was a strong scent of liquorice and cedar, and Spencer recognised the resinous tang of dragon's blood. Inside, beneath a cloth of black silk, were seven cut glass trinket boxes, their inner sides lined with silver. Five of them had a sizeable dark crystal on top, and inside, just visible through the lid…

"Is that…?" Spencer asked, gaping at the crimson smoke.

"Looks like." Grace sighed. "I need to release them. Can you act as lookout?"

"Um, sure," he said, and went to fiddle with the bookcase closest to the door. A quick peek outside told him that there was nobody nearby – which he supposed Hotch was quietly orchestrating, elsewhere on the property. "You're good to go."

He watched out of the corner of his eye as Grace opened the window, returned to the desk and carefully lifted the first box out of the desk. It looked particularly strange – the obviously arcane in contrast with her blue forensic gloves; two worlds overlapping.

She murmured some words that he did not catch and the crystal on top of the box cracked with an audible snap that made Spencer mildly nervous. He checked the hallway again, but no one appeared to have noticed. When he glanced back, Grace was cautiously opening the lid of the little box. The smoke inside rose slowly into the air, hanging there a moment as if it was uncertain. Then it flowed out of the window.

"I hope no one outside is watching this," Grace remarked, mostly to herself.

Spencer nodded mutely, and continued the pretence of examining the books until she had repeated the process four more times. He felt the atmosphere in the room shift considerably when she had finished. It was one of those feelings that he hadn't known was there until it had dissipated, like a change in atmospheric pressure that wasn't quite real.

Grace nodded to herself with a kind of professional satisfaction, and put the box back into the drawer.

"Done?" Spencer asked, though he already knew the answer.

"They're at peace," said Grace, but she didn't stop examining the desk.

_But there still might be things that could be risky to forensic techs_, he inferred_._

They worked quietly, side by side for a while, profiling as they went and disarming a wide array of magical paraphernalia. Soon, Spencer was beginning to appreciate why Grace felt such scorn for the wizard she consistently referred to as a hack. Dark and harmful objects were mixed in with useless trinkets that added to the 'aesthetic'. It was… tacky. He couldn't think of a better word for it.

"Hmm," said Grace, and this time Spencer recognised the intonation as 'Interesting.'

He joined her beside the sideboard under the window. It was littered with papers (predominantly scrolls), maps, props – anything and everything you would expect to find in the study of a wizard from a fantasy novel. His earlier cursory perusal suggested that the majority of it was gibberish. The scroll she was presently looking at, however, wasn't artificially 'aged' the way many of the others were, although it was on a fine, vellum-like paper.

"He designed the circle ahead of time," Spencer observed, noting the annotations.

"And took the containment into account," said Grace, pointing to the part which extended up the wall, like one of Dali's melted clocks. "It's actually reasonably clever," she said with audible scorn. "But it's flawed."

"How so?"

"These bind runes, they're temporary. They'd stop working as soon as he tried to absorb them," she told him, pointing them out. "The victims would have torn him apart."

_Good_, thought Spencer, and felt a curious lack of guilt for it.

"Hey guys, take a look at this," Prentiss called, from the lounge.

They abandoned the scroll and joined her, Morgan and Rossi beside Bole's computer desk. He had been, it seemed, a meticulous note-taker.

"He'd already picked out his next two victims," said Prentiss, showing them a notebook.

"Andy Lin," Spencer read. "A fireman who has multiple awards for bravery."

"Three guesses which aspect he represents," Morgan remarked.

"Anthony Fairley. I know that name," Rossi said, with a frown.

"Yes, you do," said Grace. "That's the DA."

Prentiss gave a low whistle. "Well, that ought to give them a scare."

"Legal, adversarial power?" Spencer pondered. "The power of argument and logic, perhaps?"

"And just general power," Rossi speculated. "In many ways, a DA makes decisions that affect people's entire lives."

"Life and death, even," said Grace. "That's why he left them until last, I guess."

"Garcia said he dropped out of medical school," said Morgan, thoughtfully. "I guess that's where his skill with the scalpel came from."

_Or not,_ Spencer thought privately.

Outside, someone gave a shout.

They were out of the room like a shot, guns drawn – as were every other agent and cop on the lot, but when they arrived in the yard, where the coroner was processing Bole's body, they discovered the weapons were unnecessary. Two very pale forensic technicians were staggering back from the tool shed they had just opened.

Hotch was already at the door, and he waved for them to put their weapons away, putting one hand to his mouth as though fighting nausea. When Spencer reached the dark doorway, he could see why. Inside, hanging on pegs on the wall, were the skins of Bole's five victims.

0o0

The jet was quiet. Most people were drowsy, after several days of no sleep, compounded with nightmares that would last decades. They had stayed on in Wichita for a couple of days, helping Detective Singh finish up the investigation and paperwork a majorly weird case like this tended to generate, and for the first morning, Hotch had ordered them all to bed – including the Detective.

He had seen them off that afternoon, with much relief and a vast smile. Garcia had told them, when they'd got on the jet, that he had already applied to get himself and various team members on various BAU training courses.

All in all, with Bole dead and Rosetti's out of action, buried – Sergeant Barnum, who seemed to Spencer to be rather pleased with this news, had told them – under a mountain of tax return infringements (Grace had seemed just as glad of the news, and the exchange had left Spencer wondering whether that particular sergeant had some arcane connections of her own), the case had been resolved in a very satisfactory fashion.

It would have been somewhat more satisfactory, Spencer felt, if fewer people had been flayed alive, and if Garcia hadn't been targeted by a madman, but you didn't always get what you wanted.

As it was, their faithful technical analyst had – unusually – shunned Morgan's company and put herself between the window and Spencer, as far as she could get from Grace. Spencer didn't mind; nor did he blame her. His own introduction to the reality of magic had been much less dramatic, and much less illusion shattering. He had still needed to put a little distance between Grace and himself until he could reconcile it with their weird friend. Even so, the events in Wichita had shaken him. So, they were sitting side by side, not talking, but aware that there was something changed in them after what they had witnessed in the warehouse.

He knew that everything Grace had done had been in their defence, and there had been a handful of moments in that fraught half-hour when he had been unable to see anything but her beauty, with the magic she seldom used flowing freely through her, it had still been a terrifying thing to behold.

Further down the jet, just visible between the seats, he could see her, quiet and guarded still. He wondered if it was the dread of what Garcia might decide to say that was keeping her so close and wary. She was squashed into the four-seater around the table, with Prentiss, Morgan and Rossi, who were playing – from what Spencer could make out – seven card stud. Grace wasn't playing, and when, after a while, Hotch asked to be dealt in, she gave up her seat and slid into the one behind it, which was reasonably private and quite isolated.

_She's putting up walls,_ he realised. _She doesn't know how long she'll be welcome…_

Momentarily, in his mind's eye he saw her striding towards Garcia, the glow of magic still clinging to her skin, her eyes flashing with strangeness, and felt himself move between them, and raise his gun. Spencer swallowed, feeling faintly nauseous.

Had he really done that?

No wonder she was feeling separate.

"I – uh – I gotta check on Grace," he said to Garcia, whose eyes widened a little, but nodded.

JJ was fast asleep on the bench seat, so he paused to pull the blanket over her shoulder. The others were absorbed in their game, but even so he felt Hotch's eyes on the back of his head as he took the seat next to Grace.

She was staring out across the clouds, her mind elsewhere. He saw her shift slightly as he sat down, aware of his presence, but not knowing quite how to respond. Spencer wasn't entirely sure where to begin.

A couple of days before, when they had slept tangled in one another's arms, the world had made a lot more sense. He could have jostled his leg against hers and probably raised a smile. Now, though, despite the conversations undertaken in a professional context, they were more distant again. He didn't like it.

It was lucky, really, that they were both profilers, and thus accustomed to reading meaning from other people's micro-expressions.

Slowly, giving her time to move if she needed to, he took her hand between both of his, willing her to understand that the rubbing of his thumb against the back of it was all he could do in a busy jet full of their friends and colleagues, and that had they been elsewhere, the gesture would have been something more.

Warily, and with some surprise, she met his gaze.

"I'm sorry about…" he said, and touched the hilt of his revolver. "It was – uh – all a bit of a shock."

Grace turned her face away, but he felt her fingers curl around his, and he pulled their hands lower, so they might be obscured if any of their spectacularly nosy co-workers glanced in their direction.

0o0

"Show her the butterflies," Spencer suggested.

It was the weekend – the first one in a while that they hadn't spent on the road, and the first one since they had returned from Wichita – and they were in Grace's back garden. It was sunny and warm, and she had felt Garcia would feel less edgy around her if they were outside.

It had been Spencer's idea to invite her over, and while Grace would have far rather avoided the conversation entirely, she owed Garcia an explanation – and the truth. She hadn't entirely expected her to show up, but she had, and she had brought a couple of bottles of wine, which they were now most of the way through.

Which was why Penelope was on the giggly side of scared, Grace was relaxed enough (despite the two hour conversation about magic) to let her guard down a little, and Spencer was sitting back to front on one of her lawn chairs, practically sprawled over the top of it.

He was looking deliciously dishevelled, and with the wine, was providing a not-unwelcome distraction – albeit one that came with its own problems.

"Butterflies?" asked Garcia, interested.

"Yeah, they're pretty cool," said Spencer. "Grace showed me them when we got stuck in the Pine Barrens," he told her. "You know I'm scared of the dark?"

Garcia giggled. "Uh-huh, and I know you hate that we know that."

"Not the point," he retorted, though he was smiling. He looked up at Grace, a sweet playfulness about his face. "Show her the butterflies."

"Alright," said Grace, and cupped her hands to her mouth.

0o0

When Garcia had gone, charmed and disarmed, and giddy enough to require a cab, she half expected Spencer to follow suit. The evening was warm, and it was a pleasant enough walk to his apartment, but he did not.

They waved Garcia off and it was he who led the way back to the garden. She watched him, strolling comfortably through the tight-budded early roses and the honeysuckle, and wondered if this was all a weird, stressful dream.

Spencer tilted the bottle toward her, and Grace read it for what it was: part invitation, part request to stay. She smiled, and let him fill up her glass.

"Thank you," she said, joining him on the bench. "That was a good shout about the butterflies."

Buoyed by the wine – and perhaps by the mutual changes they had made, to themselves and to whatever it was they were (which remained largely still unexamined) – he put an arm around her shoulder. Grace smiled into her glass, settling back against him, remembering how bold he had been in his hotel room. Perhaps this boldness was just a part of who they were now.

"I thought it might help if she could see that magic wasn't all fire and fear and stuff," he told her. "And I knew as soon as she saw that, you two would be fine."

"Still, I appreciate it," she said resting her head against his shoulder. "And I appreciate you not making a run for it. After what you saw in Wichita, I'm astonished you want to spend time with me at all."

The doctor made a derisive sound that settled the last remnants of the qualms in her chest. "Don't worry about me," he said, and somehow the way their legs fell naturally closer felt wonderfully safe and good. "I know what it is to be afraid of your own mind."

Grace snorted, but only gently. He wasn't incorrect. She held up her glass for him to clink it, and he did. Together, under the waking stars, they finished the bottle.

**0o0**

**Well folks, I'm a bit under the weather right now, and with the way things are, I am therefore terrified. It's taken me most of the week to write this chapter, working as much as I have been able. I'm not trying to curry sympathy here, just letting you know there may be some delays in the coming weeks. It's also why this chapter is a little disjointed, because my writing brain is not on full power. **

**Also, with the best will in the world, for various reasons, I am not going to write the majority of Amplification, as I had planned. (I'm aware some of you don't watch the show, so suffice it to say, it's the Anthrax episode). To be honest, I don't think you guys need an in-depth examination of that particular storyline any more than I do right now. It's a shame, because honestly I think the performances in that episode are some of the finest in the whole show (particularly the General, in that bit on the subway). Anyway, I'm going to write the important bits – by which I mean the parts that advance Grace's character arc and her relationships with the team (primarily Reid). It's also annoying, because I was really looking forward to what I had planned for them, but in the interests of all our mental well-being, this will have to do.**

**Love you all – take care of yourselves, and each other. **

**Pxx**


	26. Amplification

**Buckle up, folks, this one is a doozy. And in case you have forgotten, as I said at the end of the last chapter, this is the anthrax episode, and feels pretty much exactly like the world we are presently facing. Maybe take it steady and read it in chunks.**

**0o0  
Essential Listening: Waste, by Foster the People**

Revelling in the pull of her muscles against the water, Grace completed the last of the laps she had set herself. The doctor had warned her not to push herself too hard, too fast, and for the most part she had listened to her, with the exception of getting back to work as soon as she was able. Still, it had taken several months of physical therapy for her to feel comfortable in the water again.

She paused at the end of the lap to stretch and to let three older ladies who were swimming gently as a group and chatting the whole length of the pool and back pass her. She gave them a smile. The pool wasn't too full at this time of day, before the majority of people had got off work, but the usual groups of retirees and people with small children were there. Soon, it would fill up with older children, coming in for their swimming lessons.

Grace relaxed against the side of the pool. It felt good. She had finally been signed off at work, she had retaken her firearms certification (which was annual anyway, and used her other, dominant wrist, but you never knew what an injury might do), and now she was back up to her regular number of laps.

She had missed this.

Swimming was one of those activities that – like yoga or meditation – brought her focus to her body, without allowing the mind time to dwell on anything complicated. All there was, was the water and her – and avoiding the occasional collision with other swimmers. It was time to just _be_.

Perhaps she would be able to entice some of the rest of the team to a lake in the summer, she decided. Blow off some steam.

She caught her reflection in the window: gone were the dark circles and pale complexion that had haunted her face just as surely as Peach Tree City had haunted her dreams. She was herself again. The shorter hair suited her, she decided. What had begun as an exercise in making her daily grooming easier with a cast on had become one of her favourite parts of her appearance. She ran a hand through it, deciding it needed some more attitude.

She grinned at herself, contemplating 1920s asymmetrical styles. It was good to be alive.

0o0

_It will become fine dust over all the land of Egypt, and will become boils breaking out with sores on man and beast through all the land of Egypt. _

_Exodus 9.9_

0o0

A tray of little plastic cups containing Cipro. A large jug of water and glasses.

It was a bleak enough sight on a regular day, but today…

Grace picked up the plastic cup and rolled the tablets around, thinking about all the people who had been in the pool the previous afternoon. They wouldn't have the advantage of the Cipro – and if this really was a soft-target terror attack, any one of them could be targeted. She had been on the force in London when the ricin scare had happened. She had had training for an event like this: anthrax, sarin, ricin – the works.

It was difficult to keep the mind from racing at all the possibilities, and how each one might play out among the people she cared for. And they couldn't even tell anyone, or warn them to stay home – and what good would that do, if this was widespread enough? It would only cause a panic, which always made things worse. Her head reeled – but that was what the training was for. To anticipate that crisis of the mind, and provide a map for how to move forward, get the job done. She knocked back the Cipro and met JJ's pale, frightened eyes across the conference table.

They would put a stop to this.

They had to.

0o0

Nothing ever went as planned. It was something she supposed she ought to have learned by now, but standing in the home laboratory of a man who had cooked up a novel strain of anthrax, knowing that she and Reid had accidentally inhaled it was taking the biscuit.

Grace glared at the files she was reading through, hoping to find notation for a cure – or anything that might slow it down. Her mind felt thready. The fatigue was already beginning to build, and it had only been a few hours. Soon, the coughing and the chest pain would start, and after that, the lesions, both inside her body and out. And the aphasia. Oddly, of all the things that this particular strain of anthrax could do to a person, that scared her the most: the inability to be able to communicate or understand, especially at a time like this. Like being cut off from the rest of the world, just when you needed it the most.

She was vaguely hoping that if it came to it, she would be unconscious at that point.

Sighing, she placed the cool part of her forearm against her forehead. There wasn't much of a temperature yet, but it was there, just a few degrees outside of normal.

Really, it was one thing to feel the general, existential dread of there being an imminent biological attack in your area and quite another to be looking directly down the barrel of it, particularly with such a detailed knowledge of how it would progress, and how quickly.

She glanced outside, where Hotch, Morgan and anyone not presently setting up and equipping a decontamination tent were gazing forlornly at the house. The fact that the weather was so lovely almost seemed like an insult.

_Who builds an anthrax lab inside a suburban home, anyway?_ Grace thought angrily, and then allowed her eyes to travel to the man who had, and who had been shot for his pains. _Doctor Nichols was trying to stop something like this happening_, she reminded herself, _but managed to set it all off anyway._

Spencer, whose breathing was already laboured, was leaning against the desk on the far wall, taking a rest from what felt like a horribly forlorn and pointless search. He had Garcia on speaker phone.

As usual, Penelope's voice had helped stave off some of the darker thoughts that were beginning to creep in, but she wasn't her usual chipper self, right now – not with two of the team in such direct, biological peril. She was helping him record a message for his mother, in case he didn't make it, and Grace was having a very hard time as he told her how much he loved her and how proud he was.

She swallowed, which by degrees was becoming increasingly difficult to do, and then realised he had stopped speaking to his mum or Garcia, and was actually addressing her: "Do you want to –" He stopped, sounding a little breathless, and the tiny noise his lungs made as they reached for clean air made her heart clench. "Do you want to record something?"

"No," she said. "Them as need to know, do – and the team in London know how I feel."

"Okay," he said, struggling to disguise the emotion in his voice. "Thanks Garcia."

Grace held his red-rimmed gaze for a moment, hoping he could read what she needed to say to him from her micro-expressions. He nodded tightly, and they both had to turn away and scrub tears from their faces as Doctor Kimura and her team came in, wrapped tightly in their bright orange hazard suits.

0o0

Spencer had refused morphine, though it was as plain to Grace as it was to Doctor Kimura that he was really beginning to suffer, now. Grace had turned it down, too, though not as urgently or vociferously. Right now, her and Reid's best chance of getting through this was to profile Nichols and his student, and having two sets of eyes inside the lab would help immeasurably.

Assuming they could keep it together long enough, which was easier said than done.

It felt like the embers of a fire were spreading slowly through her lungs, burning and melting. Each breath was costing her more energy and hurting more – and the panic that came with the rising temperature and exhaustion was harder to control, particularly for someone who usually managed their more extreme emotions by moderating their breathing. There was the beginnings of a definite rattle at the bottom of each breath now, and that would only increase. Her head swam.

Still, as bad as Grace felt, Spencer looked ten times worse.

Letting Linda Kimura's team take the lab apart for the vaccine for a few minutes, she joined him beside the window. He gave her a forlorn little smile as she made an attempt to look like she was rummaging through the things on the table he was leaning against. Grace allowed herself to come to her stop, her hand resting on the counter beside him, not quite touching him – though she dearly wanted to.

There were too many people here.

Spencer coughed and vainly tried to clear his throat, swiping an arm across his forehead to clear some of the sweat and then folding his arms tightly across his front, the way he did when he felt particularly vulnerable.

Grace stared at her hands. This was torture.

He coughed again, and she couldn't stop the palm she placed on his forehead, which was hot to the touch, now. He closed his eyes, leaning into her cooler hand – and to her touch.

"God, why are you so much sicker than me?" she asked softly, and Spencer gave a defeated shrug.

"I don't know," he said, rather hoarsely. "I – I thought I knew everything about how this strain attacks the body, but for some reason..." He cleared his throat. "For some reason it seems to be accelerated in me, compared to the other victims." He glanced at her face, perhaps unwilling to include her in that category. "And compared to you."

Grace rested her hand on his for a moment, and – still with his arms crossed, and conscious of the sea of orange suited people around them – he rubbed the back of it with his thumb.

"I _do_ know exactly how this thing progresses," he mused. "It feels – uh – very strange to be staring that knowledge directly in the face, with a… more practical dataset, as it were." He chuckled and that quickly devolved into choking coughs.

Doctor Kimura gave him the kind of look that suggested she was considering packing him off to hospital right then and there, but he waved her down.

"I wish I could hug you, right now," said Grace softly, when the coughing had subsided.

"Hah. Me too." He shook his head. "But I really wish you were out there with Hotch and Morgan, instead of in here with me."

"Where the hell else would I be?" She hadn't intended it to come out quite so fiercely as it had, but it was that sort of a day.

They were quiet for a few minutes, as Doctor Kimura's team continued their urgent search.

Grace became aware that he was looking at her obliquely, along his shoulder. His eyes were dark, behind his lashes, and it was curiously difficult to make out his expression. She held his gaze, shoulder to shoulder, then he cleared his throat again.

"I –" He paused, waiting for a hermetically sealed doctor to pass by. "I – I just wanted to – to tell you… In case we – in case _I_ don't – in case I _can't_…" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "H-ho-how much you – you make every day… better. Worth waking up for…"

Grace watched as he looked down and then back up at her, his Adam's apple bobbing furiously.

"I wanted to tell you how much you – I mean, how much I-I…" Spencer trailed off, trying soundlessly to form syllables.

Recognising the struggle, Grace laid her hand on his arm. "I know," she told him, and smiled sadly as his expression startled, then softened, knowing that she had taken his meaning. "Me too."

They shared a wry, wistful sort of look, then Grace's phone buzzed, and suddenly they were all business again.

0o0

They were, all of them, banking on Spencer being right about Nichols choosing to hide the antidote to his new strain of anthrax in an old, personal inhaler. It made sense: it was small, contained and able to be carried around with ease, and raising no suspicion whatsoever. The unsub wouldn't ever have thought of it.

Grace was hoping against hope that he was right, because if he wasn't…

They walked side by side along the tunnel of polythene the Hazmat people had erected, connecting the contaminated house to the decon' area, feeling his fingers brush against hers every few steps.

She was just about keeping a handle on her fear, though it was a hard won victory. This wasn't the simple fear of great winged things in the Pine Barrens, bright, urgent terror of having to face down a killer with more magic than sense, nor even the way she had felt with a shotgun pressed into the back of her neck. No, this was a slow, cloying dread, wrapping its digits around her heart and lungs, and gaining pace and power with every passing minute.

Her head felt oddly loud, like everything, even the passage of time, was being shouted.

Doctor Kimura ushered them into the first bay and Grace squashed the fear down as hard as she could. There were things to do that would protect other people, right now, and that was more important than being scared.

"Uh, we usually do this separately," said Doctor Kimura, looking mildly awkward. "But time is of the essence, and…"

"It's okay," said Grace, and Spencer nodded.

"Yeah, don't worry. We get it."

"Hey, at least you can tell people you've seen my tattoos," Grace joked, and Spencer cracked a painful, slightly helpless smile.

Doctor Kimura smiled, too, relieved to have terrified patients who could still cling to their senses of humour.

"Alright. Items that could be irradiated, here," she said, indicating a sealable box on a flimsy, temporary table. "Weapons, watches, jewellery, phones. I'm afraid your clothes will have to be burned."

"Oh man," Grace complained, compensating for the fear with humour as hard as she was able. "This is a really good bra!"

She was rewarded with a snort from Spencer, and chuckles from the Hazmatted guy behind the box.

They emptied their pockets in a jumble of guns, badges and electronic equipment. Grace slipped off the necklace and ear studs she had been wearing and then handed over her pocket watch.

"Take good care of this," she said, to the Hazmat-man. "It means a lot to me."

"We'll get it back to you, ma'am." He nodded, and sealed the box after Spencer added his own watch.

"Now, do either of you wear hearing aids, contact lenses or other hidden medical equipment?" Kimura asked.

Grace shook her head, and waited while Spencer removed his contacts.

"I can't see a damn thing," he confided, so she took his hand and guided him through to the next bay. "Well, I can, just not details, like raised edges on the floor…"

Morgan, who had been with them just before they had managed to expose themselves to a biological weapon, appeared at the see-through divide between the safe world and theirs.

"Hey," she said, and Spencer looked confused until Morgan greeted them both, in that calm, terse manner he had picked up from Hotch.

"Hey 007. How're you doing, Pretty Boy?"

"I've had better days," Spencer quipped, giving him a wave. The coughs were still small, but coming more regularly now, and Grace had started with the occasional bout herself.

"Shoes in here," said the doctor.

"I've got Rossi," said Morgan, waving his cell phone. "He says 'Eh, Bambini'."

Spencer rolled his eyes.

"Tell him he owes me a drink, for that," Grace said, sticking out her tongue.

She wished she hadn't, because it made her throat hurt all the more. Doctor Kimura and her team pulled Grace a few paces from Spencer, and briefly he grasped for her hand.

Morgan caught the movement and raised his eyebrows, but he didn't say anything. Then they switched on the water – it was icy at first, and Grace gasped, which set her coughing.

"Sorry," said the doctor. "It'll warm up in a minute."

Grace nodded, shivering. It felt very weird to be being hosed down in her clothes – weirder still with Morgan watching.

"Yeah," he said, into the phone. "Yeah, they're hosin' 'em down, now. Alright." He hung up and slipped the cell into his pocket. "They're checkin' out Brown's house."

"Go help Hotch," said Reid, sounding increasingly tired.

Grace could hear the tremor in his voice, too, though she wasn't sure if it was fear or chills.

"Hotch has plenty of people helpin' him," Morgan replied, shifting into his 'I won't be moved stance'.

"He needs you more than we do," Spencer retorted.

"Guys, I'm gonna see you off to the hospital."

"Beat it, Morgan. This is bad enough without an audience," Grace told him.

Spencer pulled a face. "We're about to get naked," he said. "So they can – scrub us down. Is that something you really wanna see?"

Grace's giggles, bordering on the hysterical, quickly turned into coughing again.

"Alright," said Morgan, giving them both long looks. "I'll check on you later. Oh," he said, as a parting shot before he left the tent, "No funny business, you two. Keep it clean."

"Know anywhere I can bulk buy itching powder?" Grace asked loudly, and heard him snort, outside.

Doctor Kimura's colleague, who had introduced herself as Catherine, helped Grace out of her shirt. Several feet away, Spencer was removing his tie.

_This is right up there on my list of weird days,_ Grace thought.

Linda gasped, which got Grace's attention. "Doctor Reid, did you cut yourself?"

For a moment, everyone stopped and stared at the small, jagged tear on the back of Spencer's left hand. It was deep, and already blackening – displaying the first, tell-tale signs of a skin lesion.

He stared, wild-eyed at Grace. "The rose bush! I caught it on the rose bush on the way into Nichols' house!"

_Oh fuck,_ thought Grace. _It's been in his blood stream this whole time!_

Spencer swallowed hard. "Well, at least we know why I'm sicker."

0o0

As soon as she had seen the cut on Reid's hand, Doctor Kimura had sped the whole operation of getting them decontaminated up. Now, the ambulance was racing through the streets, jolting them back and forth. There was only one stretcher, and Grace had flat out refused it, though she had let them strap her to the brace-chair.

Spencer on the other hand, had been hit by a wave of dizziness as soon as they had been provided with paper scrubs. There hadn't even been time to be shy about their nudity, or the space in their brains.

He was coughing constantly now, while Grace's chest gave regular gurgles of discontent, and both Linda and an EMT who had yet to introduce himself were dressing the wound on his hand and checking his vitals.

They had already hooked him up to an oxygen line, and the nameless EMT had assured Grace she was next, but a large part of her didn't care, as long as Spencer would just stop coughing.

"How are you feeling, Doctor Reid?" Kimura asked, with medical calm.

"Um, my throat's a little dry," he replied hoarsely. "But other than that I feel fl… feel fin… I feel – I feel…" He broke off, frustrated. He was searching for words that refused to come.

"The aphasia," Grace guessed, sharing a frightened look with Doctor Kimura.

"It's okay, Doctor Reid," she said, trying to keep him calm. Then she turned. "Driver? Go faster!"

Coughing harder now – so hard that Kimura had to wipe blood from his mouth – Spencer reached helplessly for Grace.

"I know," she said, grasping his arm and feeling his fingers close tightly, desperately about hers. "I'm here. I've got you."

He couldn't talk now, so he didn't try. He didn't need to, it was clear from his eyes that he was scared out of his wits. So was Grace.

She leaned as close as she could, given the belt holding her in place and the lurching of the ambulance, and squeezed his arm. "I know you can understand me, even if the words have got a little lost," she said urgently, suppressing the urge to cough. "You're going to be okay. I'm not going anywhere, Spencer. I'm going to be right here when you wake up. I'm not going to leave you alone in your own head. That's a promise."

He held her gaze, so she kept a hold of his arm, right up until he lost consciousness.

"Doctor," she said, and started coughing again, trying hard not to panic and not entirely succeeding.

Kimura nodded, and beneath the professional calm, Grace read the same, deep-rooted fear she felt herself.

_Hang in there, love,_ she thought. _Just hang in there._

0o0

Catherine, who Grace recognised from the decon tent, met her at the door as Doctor Kimura and the EMT hurried Spencer away on a gurney. Grace watched him go, unable to quantify how she felt.

Was she shaking?

She lifted a hand to inspect it. Yes. Her fingers were trembling. That wasn't a good sign.

"How are you feeling?" Catherine asked, guiding her onto a second gurney which they had obviously had ready for her.

"Hot, shaky, scared as hell," said Grace. "Kind of feverish. Have they tested the inhalers yet?"

"They're doing it now," said the doctor, soothingly. "Lie down. I want to get you to isolation and get some oxygen into you. How's the chest?"

"Tight, burny…" Grace coughed hard and pressed a hand to her ribs. "I think I'll have those painkillers, now, please."

"Alright."

She watched, feeling strangely detached, as the ceiling of the hospital progressed above her at some speed, before coming to rest, presumably, in the isolation part of the ICU.

"I'm going to hook you up to a drip," said Catherine.

"Is Reid here?" Grace asked, and tried to sit up, but the doctor pushed her gently back down again.

"Your partner's right next door, but I need you to keep your head straight if you can," she told her. "We need to keep your airways clear."

"'Kay."

She surrendered herself to the doctor's ministrations. She was joined, after a minute or so, by two nurses, who arranged Grace in the best possible position, attached a drip, set up a breathing tube. She felt a tear slide down her face and drip into her ear. She flicked it away with the hand that wasn't attached to the drip. Clouds of painless warmth began to spread through her. The morphine, she realised.

"How are you doing?" Catherine asked again, gently sympathetic.

Grace cracked a smile that was probably more like a grimace. "I only just got signed off."

0o0

_Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it._

_Helen Keller_

0o0

Spencer woke slowly, remembering the pain and the panic only as an afterthought.

_They must have given me morphine_, he thought groggily. _I'll have to go through withdrawal again._

Then he woke up properly and opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was Morgan, sitting at the end of the bed and using his legs as a shelf for a sports magazine, eating jello out of a plastic cup. The second thing was Grace, wrapped in a hospital blanket, lying propped up across several chairs, on several pillows and apparently dozing. She was attached to a breathing unit and a drip, but it looked rather like she had dragged both into his room and set up camp. Which meant she was okay enough to be physically stubborn.

He smiled, allowed his eyes to drift closed again, and fell back asleep.

The next time he came to he felt a lot less vague, and it felt like straps of hot iron were wrapped around his chest. The drugs were wearing off. He opened his eyes and found that the tableau he had witnessed earlier had not changed; Morgan had even found more jello – though this time it was red, rather than green.

"Are you eating jello?" he asked, through a dry, sore throat.

"Hmm," said Morgan, sounding pleased. "Hey kid." He flicked a plastic spoon – not the one he was presently using – at Grace, who stirred and gave him the finger. "Hey Doc," Morgan called into the hall. "Look who's back."

Doctor Kimura came into the little room, smiling. Spencer noted the lack of masks and sealed doors and was pleased at what this suggested.

"Is there any more jello?" Spencer quipped, half seriously. He wasn't sure he could have swallowed it if he tried.

"Hey, not so fast," said Kimura, beaming.

Spencer struggled into a marginally more upright position, and suddenly Grace – pale and dragging her IV – was there, putting one of her pillows in place so he could sit up. He took her hand and didn't let go, even though he knew both Morgan and the doctor could see it. She didn't pull away.

"Trust me, you don't want to eat yet," she said. "And the red stuff tastes like chemical cherries anyway."

"What happened?" he asked, peering up at Morgan.

"You're gonna be okay," his friend told him. "And we got Brown. It's over."

Spencer nodded, more feeling a measure of relief. "How's Abby?" he asked, thinking of the frail girl he had interviewed before they had gone to the house.

"She's on the mend," Linda replied. "So are the three others. You were right about where to look for his cure."

Spencer nodded, feeling Grace squeeze his hand; he tightened his grip in reply.

"Why was Doctor Nichols making anthrax in the first place?" he wondered aloud.

It had been bugging him the whole time, at the back of his mind. Why create the threat that you feared the most?

"He was trying to prove his point," said Grace, and her voice was gravelly, like his.

"He was a brilliant scientist, downgraded to workin' on the flu," Morgan speculated. "Brown comes along askin' for help with his thesis…"

"He's probably more than happy to share his knowledge," Spencer finished.

"There was no indication that Nichols had any idea what Brown was plannin'."

"He played him," said Grace, and Spencer felt her perch on the edge of his bed.

_Good,_ he thought drowsily. _Right where I want you._

But it didn't last.

"Alright, Agent Pearce, he's awake," said Doctor Kimura, with half-serious sternness that suggested there had been a battle of wills in the recent past. "Will you go back to your room, now? Please?"

"Yes, doctor," said Grace, meekly, and to Spencer's astonishment, she leant and kissed his forehead. "Be okay."

"I will, if you are," he said, and gave her fingers one final squeeze before she allowed Morgan to help her through the door, and into the next bay.

He could see her arguing good naturedly with him, through the glass.

"She wouldn't leave," Kimura told him, following his gaze with a smile. "As soon as we cleared you both of contaminants, she came through here and set up camp."

Spencer chuckled, which hurt his chest, but didn't rob him of breath the way it had before.

"Yes," he said, fondly amused. "Grace has her own peculiar variety of stubborn."

Linda laughed, and gave him a warm smile. "I think she would have broken down the door if we hadn't opened it. Keep hold of that one."

The blush started before he could stop it, and anyway, Doctor Kimura wasn't a colleague, and had spent enough time around them to guess that whatever their relationship was, was private.

"I intend to," he admitted, shyly. "I intend to."

0o0

"Hey."

Spencer looked up from the book he had been reading and smiled. Grace was leaning against the door of his room, wearing that green leather jacket and the jeans that he liked to stick his hands in the pockets of, and a grin that suggested she knew it.

"Heading home?" he asked, nodding at the bag by her feet.

They had been in the ICU for the better part of a week, now, and both of them were itching to get out, now. Grace more-so than he, since the anthrax had had less of a change to do damage to her, for which Spencer was intensely grateful.

Several times, over the past few nights, he had woken, dripping with sweat, dreaming of scarlet blooming from her mouth and her body gasping for its last breath. The last time had been so bad that he had got up and padded into her room, and stayed there a few hours, just to watch the steady rise and fall of her chest as she slept.

"Doctor Kimura says I'm to take it easy," she told him, and came to sit beside him on the bed.

He wiggled out of the way to make room.

"I feel like I've spent the whole of this year doing that," she joked, but Spencer ignored her.

From where he was sitting he could wrap both arms around her waist with ease, so he did that instead, fiddling with the pocket of her jeans that usually held her pocket watch.

Grace smiled, running her hand up his arm. She leaned in to press a kiss against his forehead, the way she had when he had first awoken, and he tilted his head up at the last second, catching her unawares. Grace laughed, and kissed him properly.

It felt good – both to be alive, and to be able to do _this_.

"Did you mean – uh – that stuff we were not saying, before?"

Grace's smile broadened and she nodded. "Every unsaid word," she said, and Spencer felt his heart swell.

0o0

Emily strode up the corridor of the no-longer isolation ward, smiling at the nurses she had got to know by sight over the past week. It was good to be liberating one of her friends, if not both, and Reid had seemed much more himself when she and Garcia had visited them the day before. They had come so close to losing them both.

Emily was trying not to think about it.

It came as no surprise whatsoever that Grace was not in her room, but in Reid's, and not that much more shocking that she was perched on the side of his bed.

Emily slowed her pace a little, watching as Reid gave their friend a tight hug, which she returned. Nothing odd about that, on the surface, except that when they pulled apart again, neither of them dropped their hands from where they had been resting. There was – as there often was, with those two – something almost intimate about the way they were looking at one another.

She shrugged it off. They had both nearly died in quite a horrible way. If they needed to hug it out, in that weird, slightly-more-than-friends-but-we-don't-talk-about-it way they had, so be it.

Even so, Emily was loathe to intrude – but she only had a twenty minute parking ticket, and the hospital parking fines could be a real bitch.

"Hey, you ready to go," she asked, and tucked the sight of two pairs of ears reddening at speed away to think about later.

"Yep," said Grace, getting to her feet. "I'll catch you when you hit parole," she joked, and Spencer gave her a lopsided smile.

"You are _so_ weird."

**0o0**

**Holy Hannah, that was a thing. I suspect I processed some of my feelings for the world at large in this one. Sorry it jumps about so much, but I just couldn't face the whole thing. Hopefully I've done it justice without freaking too many of us out.**

**This is the end of this run! The next one, Watch Over Me, will take us into season five, and should be up the week after next. Hit the Follow Author button if you haven't already, and it'll drop right into your inbox on the 17****th**** of April, universe willing. I'm taking Easter weekend off. It's been… I'd say a wild ride, except I had that massive, four month long hiatus, so I'll say it was a thing. I appear to have used my quota of words up on Grace and Reid xD**

**Anyway, immeasurable thanks to all the readers and reviewers, you make the rockin' world go round, and you keep me going when I feel like I should throw away my pen and learn how to herd goats, or something. Particularly my regulars (you know who you are), and all you quiet folks who show up every so often and say hello. It means the world to me. Especially this year, with all the disruption to the fic. I missed you all so much when I wasn't writing. I love you folks!**

**You can find more of my writing, if you're bored, on Amazon, or through my book of the face, insta ham and twitter accounts, all of which are under some variation of Lauren K. Nixon. I also have a Pat with a re and an on, which I don't entirely suck at updating, where you can get your hands on snippets, sneak previews, Q and As, flash fiction competitions and even the odd letter from a character. I also take pictures of stuff, including my cat, and they show up there, too.**

**Keep safe, people, and keep burning through the surface of this nasty little bastard with soap and disinfectant. Stay home, stay social on the web, and hold the line. See you on the flip side.**

**Parlanchina xx**


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